


sans the surface

by thispieceofmind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Smut, ski trip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry likes beautiful things; louis is starshine. new zealand isn’t so bad. a fwb! and ski trip!au</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"each trip harry goes on teaches him to behold beauty more carefully, and he thinks that’s why he’s struggling so much; his eyes can’t decide whether he wants to look at the town outside his window or the boy pressed too close to him in the tight seating of the car. he feels like this problem might become reoccurring, and he’s glad that along with beholding beauty he can also tell when he’s completely fucked. ”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	sans the surface

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that. I've been working on this for almost two months now, so. I just wanted to start out by saying that this is actually based off of a real thing! You'll see "Rustic Pathways" a lot, which is [a real company with real programs](http://rusticpathways.com/)! Unfortunately, both of the programs that I did last summer (which are the ones that Harry did) are no longer available which kind of sucks :( but here is the website in case you want to check it out because it's actually so cool! I had so much fun in both places so if you want to check out my Fiji/New Zealand experience I actually documented the whole thing [on this blog](http://southernhemispheres.tumblr.com/). I did change things around for the sake of the fic, but a majority holds true. 
> 
> I want to thank my babes [Sarah](http://radiantmint.tumblr.com) and [Hayley](http://twinkshire.tumblr.com) for beta'ing, [Kenzie](http://tummyhand.tumblr.com) and Tashie for hand holding, and well, that's it I suppose! I really hope everyone likes it because I actually think I do (surprise surprise) and if you have any questions please do not hesitate to ask. 
> 
> Enjoy you cutie pies!

_Pre/Day 1_

It feels like the plane is going to get impaled by mountain tops, and Harry’s heart is beating uncomfortably in his chest. He doesn’t like when he can feel it. It’s like the awareness that your clothes are on your body, or when a hair is on your skin but static won’t let it go. Louis is sitting next to him, and so far, he’s Harry’s favorite. His hair is tucked under a maroon beanie and his jacket is bunched up on his lap. 

* * * 

_They met at the Auckland airport, and getting off that plane reminded Harry of landing in JFK when he was fourteen. Everything was unsettlingly unfamiliar in a new country. At sixteen, he handled himself better, but regardless. It set off a weird feeling in his stomach, yet it was kind of comforting to know that there was another lad on his plane wearing the bright blue Rustic Pathways shirt._

_He helped Harry get his luggage off the carousel, because his oversized ski bag was slung over his shoulder and he was too adamant to put it down. He can’t say that he regrets getting his help. Louis was so enthusiastic about the fact that they were on the same program. He immediately started talking to him about the French Alps, so when Harry saw the other three kids sitting on top of overly stuffed bags at the exit of Customs by an older-looking dude, everyone thought they were already friends._

_It made Harry the slightest bit flustered, but he was happy that he’d already found a mate on the NZ trip. His stomach curled in longing for his group back in Fiji. He had to remind himself that they were home already. It’s not like they would even be there when he returned in another ten days. He had to make the best of New Zealand._

* * * 

Louis is playing Knife with Harry’s hand and his own fingers instead of an actual knife, and he keeps missing the gaps between Harry’s and running his index finger along Harry’s knuckles instead. 

“This game sucks,” Louis murmurs. His accent is thick even in three words. 

Whatever those three words were evaporate from Harry’s head, and he blurts, “You said you were from Yorkshire, right?”

Louis nods. “Doncaster, born and raised.”

“Well, I can definitely hear it.”

“And you’ve said nothing about Zayn?” 

Zayn is currently conked out in the window seat behind them. They did have to wake up at 5:30 this morning, but Harry can feel his anticipation in the pit of his stomach, and it won’t fizz out until they reach the mountain tonight. Marc, their guide, said that they were going night skiing. Harry can’t wrap his head around the fact that he’s on a plane to Queenstown. He can see the mountains. He can already feel snow under him and it’s the end of July. 

“Or…don’t say anything,” Louis murmurs, turning his head and laughing a little. 

“Sorry, what?” Harry says. Is everything slipping past him?

“I just said that you heard my Yorkshire accent, but you haven’t commented on Zayn’s.”

“Oh, well. You were talking and—”

“Harry, I was joshing,” Louis interrupts. 

“Oh,” Harry says again. “I don’t really know where my head is.” Louis looks at him softly. Harry tells himself that it’s because the jet is descending that it feels like his stomach is falling. “I just finished my first Rustic Pathways trip in Fiji doing Marine Biology research in the Yasawa Islands. I keep thinking about it. It’s why I’m kind of tan—well, red in the face, kind of. But tan? I dunno. I wasn’t really looking forward to it on the plane over from Fiji. Mostly it just felt unreal? I was thinking about my group that I bonded pretty well with while I was on the island, but now we’re fifteen minutes away from landing in Queenstown and my leg’s probably gonna start jumping because I’m so excited.” Harry has to take in a deep breath when he’s done talking. “I ramble, sorry.” 

“It’s charming,” Louis says. “Glad you have something to say. You never know what kind of people you’re going to wind up with on trips like these. You’re a cool lad. On the surface, anyway.” He laughs a bit. “Now tell me about your fancy skis you’ve got tucked in that bag of yours.”

Harry grins and his lungs feel clearer even thousands of feet above the ground. 

* * * 

_The first night they spent in Auckland was kind of uncomfortable, as first nights can be. The man who ran the inn that they stayed in gave Harry the wifi password for free, and he was able to iMessage his mum and Gem. He told them bits and pieces about Fiji, mostly rushed even though he had the whole night. It was an odd hour for them, anyhow. Aside from that, he didn’t want to spend the whole evening buried in his phone and look like a complete prat._

_The five of them took an hour or so to click, but in due time, they were all bonding over Timberlake in “Bad Teacher” on the small television. It was a living room type of space, with a crackling fire and close couches. Louis sat next to Harry like on the plane in, and he wouldn’t stop playing footsie with him. It felt something like a warm welcome, perhaps not just because of the proximities and fireplace._

_By the end of the night, their eyes were drooping during the box set of the BBC’s Top Gear, and Harry could only listen to so much male bonding over cars and the best driving roads in Europe._

_He and Louis shared a room. There was a part of him that wanted to stay up and talk—get to know him. But the early flight they had to take the next morning lulled him to sleep._

* * * 

As the plane continues to sink into the snowcapped mountains, Harry’s eyes dart from the window to Louis’ face. He’s staring at the black screen of the little TV a few rows ahead of him. They stopped talking about Volkl and Rossignols when a little turbulence shook the cabin, and Harry’s hand gripped the arm rest. One might think that so many flights in one summer would have gotten him acclimated to the fear of flying, but here he is thinking about his last moments. 

Louis goes to put his arm up on the rest, and he obviously sees Harry’s fingers gripping the plastic like he’s a toddler and a bully on the playground is trying to take away his favorite toy. “You all right, Harry?” he asks. 

Harry chuckles and he knows it sounds forced. “Fine. Turbulence, um. Just scares me a bit. I’ve been on loads of flights just this summer to get to Fiji, and it still scares me shitless. Not big on heights.” 

“Does that mean you won’t be joining Niall and I for a skydive?” Louis teases. 

The plane seems to drop at the perfect moment. Harry’s fingers dig further into the armrest, a feeble attempt at getting his short nails into hard plastic. “Ah. Probably not,” Harry admits. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. They’re all still falling, yet here he is, grounded in his seat. 

“Shame. Should be nice. I googled it a bit while I was at the airport in LA and apparently if the day’s really clear there’s a nice reflection of the mountains in Lake Wakatipu.”

“I also hear that there’s quite an ugly orange jumpsuit that you have to wear.” 

Louis scoffs. “I will give up fashion for thrill.” 

“Even when thrill only lasts for four minutes?”

Louis shrugs. “Are you gonna come heli-skiing though?” 

Harry lets a grin spread across his face. “I’ll be petrified on a helicopter to get conditions like that. I’m hoping to.”

“Good then,” Louis mutters, and he claps Harry on the shoulder. 

Louis returns to staring at the black television, and when Harry looks from his cheeks to the window, the mountains have engulfed them and he’s no longer suffocating the poor armrest. It takes about two more minutes for them to touch down on the tarmac, and when they’ve pulled into the terminal and the seat belt sign turns off, it’s never felt better to crack his back. 

The airport is surrounded by snowy peaks, and even in the midst of Queenstown, New Zealand still feels like a breath of fresh air. 

* * * 

Each trip Harry goes on teaches him to behold beauty more carefully, and he thinks that’s why he’s struggling so much; his eyes can’t decide whether he wants to look at the town outside his window or the boy pressed too close to him in the tight seating of the car. He feels like this problem might become recurring, and he’s glad that along with beholding beauty he can also tell when he’s completely fucked. 

The ride from the airport to the house that they’re staying in is quick, has to be less then twenty minutes. They pull into a neighborhood called Kelvin Heights that’s seemingly on a slant, with tight roads and steep driveways, and as soon as the car is parked, Harry’s standing on the asphalt and staring at the lake that’s shining at them. A hand finds its way atop Harry’s head, and the voice in his ear is teasing. “The view’s better from the balcony, kid,” Marc says. 

“There’s a balcony?” Harry asks excitedly. 

“Sure,” Marc answers, his Colorado lilt stark next to Harry’s English drawl. “Makes for good sunrises.”

“God,” Harry breathes. “It’s crazy beautiful here.” 

“My favorite place in the world,” Marc answers, “Next to Ghana, probably. There’s nothing like helping people.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a few good stories to tell then,” Harry says, going around the back of the car to get his bags from the boot. The rest of the boys made quick work of getting their things from the trunk, so they’ve made it inside. Once he’s covered in luggage, Marc closes doors for him and takes a bag off of his shoulder. 

“You good?” Marc asks. Harry nods quickly. “And you’re right,” he adds, and for a moment Harry is confused about what he’s speaking of, but remembers Ghana in a flash. “I like to save them for the chairlifts, though. They make the rides go quicker. And seem less cold.”

Harry allows himself a chuckle before heading inside the home, looking at the rickety sign by the window that reads “The Crib.” 

By the time he’s left his skis in the pool table room and he manages his way up the stairs, he finds all of the rooms claimed and his shoulders very tired. He sets his bag down near the couches in the open space of the upstairs, looking around at the four rooms and letting a slight frown work its way onto his face. The other boys are in their rooms, unpacking, and he shouts down the stairs for Marc. 

“What’s up, kiddo?” 

“Are there only four rooms?” 

Marc trots up the spiral staircase and points at the one of the two doors on the wall opposite the television. “Two beds in that room, gonna have to share. Me and Megs are.”

“Who’s Megs?” Harry asks. 

“Megan!” Marc exclaims. “Our other guide. She’s cool. From Vermont. I think she’s taking a nap. I’ll probably have to wake her up soon, she needs to meet you guys and take you into town with me.”

Harry watches as he retreats down the stairs again, and then he’s standing in the living room with his heavy bag on his shoulder still. He shakes his head a bit, as if it’ll clear his mind, and approaches the door to his future room. He knocks lightly on the door that’s slightly cracked, and it squeaks as it moves forward from the impact of his knuckles. 

“Come in!” 

Louis. 

It seems as though Harry’s problem will just keep growing at a rate like this. 

“Hey, Louis,” Harry says. “Um, there’s only four rooms, so like. I’m gonna have to stay in here? Because there’s two beds.” He points halfheartedly at the twin bed closest to the window. 

Louis sighs. “Darn. I thought I was going to have a nice place to keep all of my shit.” He’s teasing. It’s refreshing. 

Harry chuckles a bit. He sets his bag down on the floor and runs his fingers along the wood of the armoire that sits against the wall. “I dunno, mate. This closet seems like a good spot. Y’know. Organized.”

“Harry, good lad. I’m a visual guy. I like to see my shit. Closets are concealing.”

Harry laughs, although he’s unsure how funny his words were supposed to be. Would it be a horribly inappropriate time to reveal his sexuality through a closet joke? Because he happens to know how concealing they are. 

Louis manages to beat him to it. 

“Actually, I would know. Was in one for a good few years of me life.” Harry nearly chokes on his spit. It’s an age old tale that great minds think alike, though. “If it bothers you,” Louis adds, “I’ll switch rooms. I’m sure Niall wouldn’t mind sleeping in a twin. He seems like an easygoing guy.”

Harry rubs his nose and has the strange urge to start unpacking. He holds back and drums his nails along the wood of the armoire. “Uh, no, actually. Um, same?”

Louis stares at him for a few seconds, and Harry would be lying if he said it didn’t make him shift. “Oh, well. Splendid, then.”

“So are we gonna make a good use of this closet, then?” 

Louis snorts. “Absolutely not. I told you already, Harry. I’m past that stage of my life.”

Harry cackles, and he likes New Zealand. 

* * * 

When everyone is finished unpacking, by instinct they pool back into the living room. They cram themselves onto the two couches, and two minutes of slightly strained silence is broken when Marc bounds up the stairs with a woman a few steps behind him. “Hello, boys! This is Megs.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder when they’ve both made it onto the flat, and she smiles widely at the five of them, waves. 

“Yes, hello! I’m Megan, your other guide, and I’m a shit skier.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Marc mutters. “She’s, ah— _subpar_.”

“True psychology right there. Using bigger words that essentially mean the same thing to make me feel better. 

Marc rolls his eyes and pulls a face. “Anyways, we’re here to give you the lowdown on exactly what this trip’s going to entail, so get comfortable because we’re both about to talk your ears off.” 

“Awesome,” Niall says. Harry can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. The look on everyone’s face shows that they’re in a similar state of mind. “What’s got everyone lookin’ so confused?” he asks, not a minute later. “I’m serious! I’m so fuckin’ pumped!” After that, he toys with his sock and looks down at the ground. “Am I not meant to swear?” 

Marc just shrugs. “Not really meant to, no. But I don’t give a fuck, so go ahead.” 

Niall grins. “Cool.”

Megan sighs. “I suppose that sets the stage for us, doesn’t it? Rules first then. Basically, we’ve got five big noes: no drugs, no alcohol, no vandalism, no running off, and no sex. The first four are really a given, but with the fifth, ordinarily I would go into a spiel that every trip has called “Purpling”, where girls are red and boys are blue and we don’t want any mixing.” 

“Specifically of bodily functions,” Marc interjects. 

Megan shoves him. 

“Anyway, since you’re all guys, I don’t have to get into that as much.”

“Hey!” Louis calls, cheeky. “Don’t rule anyone out.”

Megan sighs again. “Sorry. Well. Moral of the story, don’t have sex with anyone, even if it’s with each other, okay?” 

They all nod. Harry can’t help the twist in his stomach. This time, he holds back from looking at Louis.

“The consequence of saying ‘yes’ to all of these noes is being sent home,” Marc starts up again. “So. Say no, right?”

“Right,” Megan repeats. “So those are the basic rules. Aside from that, we’re mostly going to talk about our itinerary.”

“ _And_ , afterwards, we’re going to play some totally awesome ice breakers. Because it’s required and they can be stupid and fun. Sound good?” Marc is a peppy dude, Harry notices. Pep can be cool. He finds his way to the couch and squeezes on the end next to Zayn, while Megan takes a seat on the floor. 

Harry looks around at all the men taking up so much space. “Do you want to sit on the couch, Megan?”

She looks at the mound of boys. “Nah. I’m good down here.” And then she goes into full lotus. Harry blinks at her. “I really like yoga,” she says. 

“Me too,” Harry responds. 

“But we’ll get into interests later. During the ‘totally awesome ice breakers’.”

Marc stretches out on the couch and wraps his arms around the back. “Let’s talk about all the _stuff_ you get to do. Throughout the trip, there are a few options that you can choose to pay for, which I’m sure you know about, but we need to know in advance who’s doing them and who’s not so we can book them for later in the week.” 

Megan leans forward to get her clipboard from the table. “So, for this trip, our options are bungee jumping, skydiving, and heli-skiing, but bungee jumping and skydiving are on the same day so if both of them sound interesting to you, you have to pick one, sorry. Before we get started, though, do you mind introducing yourselves to me? I’m gonna have to write your names down for this, so I have to be able to match a face to a name.” 

They go around the couch, introducing themselves, and Marc closes the show by jumping up and gently stroking Megan’s head and whispering, “Do you know who I am?” 

She shoves him fairly hard, and he stumbles backwards. “Harsh,” he says. 

Niall laughs tremendously. It’s all a very nice way to make them settle into a group. 

“Anyway. What are you guys looking into?” 

“I’d love to go for a skydive,” Louis says. “Sounds wicked cool. And heli-skiing as well. Dunno how you’d pass that up.”

“It’s kind of expensive, dude,” Marc points out. 

“Well. If you have the opportunity to.”

Megan writes down Louis’ name twice. “Who else, guys?” 

“I’m gonna do heli-skiing, I think,” Harry murmurs. 

“Yeah, me as well,” Zayn says. 

“That’s it for the both of you?” 

“Not a heights kind of guy,” Zayn mutters. “Even the helicopter is pushing it.” 

“Same,” Harry agrees. 

“Liam? Niall?” 

“I’d try skydiving,” Liam says. “Mum told me to do some thrill seeking whilst here. I suppose it’ll be that and the parks at the Remarkables then, yeah? And heli-skiing.”

“I’m doing them as well,” Niall interjects. “Awesome, all of us are gonna go heli-skiing. D’ya reckon that we’re all gonna be in the same chopper?” 

“Should be, yeah,” Marc says. “It’s the sickest thing, guys.” 

“I’m so excited,” Louis exclaims, drawing out his words and kicking his feet a bit. “Even for tonight, really. Never been night skiing.” 

“S’gonna be a bit dark, innit?” Liam asks. 

“Liam, mate,” Zayn starts. “There’s gonna be lights.”

“Yeah, but still.” 

There’s a few seconds of awkward silence. “So, you guys down for some icebreakers?” Marc says, breaking the stiff air.

Niall pumps his fist, a little overenthusiastically. “Hell yeah. Let’s break some ice.”

Megan raises her eyebrows a bit, and looks over at Harry, who’s closest to her. “Okay, now that I know who you are, we can start simply by going around and saying, y’know, the basics. Name again, for reinforcement, age, where you’re from, ski or snowboard, um… favorite food, and then maybe a fun fact of your choice?”

Louis rubs his hands together and wiggles around on the couch, getting comfortable in his cross-legged position. “I’m ready to smash some ice.”

Harry has to will his eyes away from him. “D’you want me to go first?” he asks Megs, who’s still looking in his direction. 

“I figure the first couch would be a good place to start,” Megan responds. 

“All right, yeah. So, my name’s Harry.” He does a little wave, hopes he doesn’t look ridiculous. “I’m sixteen. Um, I’m from a little village called Holmes Chapel, in Cheshire.” He vaguely hears Louis muttering something about poshness under his breath, but whatever. Accent payback. “I’ve been skiing since I was about five or six, my favorite food are bananas (especially with peanut butter, that’s the best), and uh, a fun fact is that, um, my sister used to torment me and say that I have six toes.” He pauses. “That’s not a very fun fact though, sorry.” He grins. “And I don't actually have six toes.” He wiggles his sock-clad feet. 

Louis smiles at him, he can see it, but before he can meet his eyes the way he’d like to, Louis is starting up speaking. “I’m Louis ‘the Tommo’ Tomlinson, I’m eighteen, and I’m from Doncaster. Like Harold here—” He nudges Harry’s arm with his knuckles. “—I am also a skier. My favorite food is probably pizza, as cliched as that is, and my fun fact is that I am one sixteenth Belgian. Awesome.” 

Liam goes next, running his hand through his hair first and making the messy waves worse than they were initially. “My name’s Liam Payne, I’m sixteen, but my birthday is actually quite soon.” 

Marc leans forward. “Oh, really? When?” 

“Just the end of the month. I snowboard, I’m a big fan of penne vodka, and I brought my GoPro with me, so we can get some cool shots.”

“Wicked,” Zayn mutters. 

“I’ve got mine as well,” Harry adds. 

The circle carries on. Niall tells his ice breaker with a loud voice and a huge grin, talking about how picking favorite foods is “stressful” and that he “doesn’t think it’s fair.” Somehow, his fun fact escalates into him telling a grand adventure of he and his friends snowboarding down the streets of Mullingar when it snowed three feet one year. He’s energetic, he’s carefree, and it’s lovely. Harry shifts on the couch. He thinks of Fiji and remembers the icebreakers there. Perhaps they’re starting on the right foot. 

Zayn is more subdued, but he talks about his fat trick skis and mentions something about art, speaking quietly and eloquently, but managing to make them laugh with hidden energy and humor under soft tones. 

Marc and Megan are both a joy, and Harry wonders briefly how he managed to strike such luck. 

After they're finally finished breaking the ice, they sit in a circle as the guides go fill out some paperwork and retreat to their room, while the boys are left to play a rousing game of Uno with the set of cards that the house has. Harry laughs so hard his abs hurt, and he loses miserably. Louis takes it upon himself to cheat by looking at Harry’s cards nearly every time he’s not in the lead, but whatever. Maybe his winning can be collective between the two of them. There’s an audio system that Zayn has taken a liking to, pumping R&B very loudly throughout the Crib. It all feels very natural. 

Harry doesn’t find himself yearning like he did on the planes. He likes New Zealand, and he yowls when Louis pulls his cards out of his hands and throws them into the pile in the middle, mixing them up with his hands in a lame shuffle. 

“We’ve got a sore loser on our hands!” Zayn declares. 

“Tommo fails at Uno, a series,” Niall mutters. 

“I’m not a sore loser, I’m just making the game exciting by stirring us up a bit of card soup.” 

Harry is definitely stirred.

* * * 

They go for a mince pie lunch at a bakery in town, appropriately named ‘The Bakery’. Harry finds Queenstown itself just as beautiful as he finds the lake. It’s small, it’s not crowded, and the base of the mountains are without snow. The air is warm enough that he doesn’t feel cold as they walk along the sidewalks and dip in and out of stores. The streets are narrow, much like the ones of his village in Cheshire, but it feels good to wander the town. They manage to bond quite a bit at lunch, the five of them, exchanging stories about past skiing and riding experiences. Harry finds that they’re all fairly well-traveled, at least through Europe, and he feels less tense. Often, he’s unsure what he can and can’t share when it comes to a group of strangers. 

They wolf down lunch in a haze, everyone devastatingly hungry after poor airline food early in the morning and a rush of unpacking and settling in. Harry finds Megs to be wonderful. She’s a little soft-spoken, but she has an edge to her, an underlying wit and an abundance of knowledge about the area in which they’re staying. When she returns from booking the excursions, she eats lunch with them and drops a few stories about hiking around the lake, and he shares a look of interest with Zayn. 

When their plates are all gone and everyone is satiated, Marc speaks up, loud in the peace of the warm bakery. “Did all of you bring skis and boards?” 

There’s a collective yes, and Marc looks impressed. “Really?” 

“Pretty sure, mate, yeah,” Louis says. 

“Cool then,” Megs says. “We can go back to the Crib now then, I guess. We still have, like, another hour until we have to leave for Cardrona to ski, so we can just hang out, change. We have some board games and movies and stuff. I don’t know if it’s enough time to start a movie but I’m sure we can finish watching it when we get home, if you guys are up for it.” 

“We’ll have to see,” Liam says. “I’m quite knackered. That flight was rather early.”

“I’ll tell you guys now, I can always sleep. No matter what. Good luck waking me up tomorrow.” Zayn’s head is propped up by his arm on the table. He already looks tired. 

“Megan is pretty good at waking people up,” Marc mutters. “Let’s just say I’ve taken many pillows to the head in the early hours of the morning.” He glares at the table, feigning anger. 

Megan swats his arm. 

* * *

New Zealand is royal in the evening’s sun. It’s setting by the time the six of them reach the summit of Cardrona, their first mountain of the trip. The chairlift up had gotten Harry jittery, his skis feeling strange on his feet and his jacket making him hot even in the bitter cold. He sat next to Louis on the way up, but the two of them spent most of the time turned around and looking down the slope, because they were just at the peak and the rest of the Earth was unfurling below them, a mountain leading into a valley that was framed by the lake. From the top of the mountain, they could see all of Queenstown, pinnacle upon pinnacle surrounding them, snowy tops and bare bottoms. It was one of the most stunning sights Harry had ever seen. His thigh was pressed against Louis’, and as soon as they got off the lift Harry pulled his camera out of his pocket, taking too many shots but not caring in the slightest. 

Zayn stops next to him. “This,” he starts, “is fucking amazing.”

“I honestly can’t believe it,” Harry murmurs, looking at Liam and Niall strapping into their bindings and getting mesmerized by all of the people moving around him. 

He nearly falls over when Louis pulls up next to him. “Selfie with me!” he yells. He waves around his phone before making Zayn and him pose, everyone looking serious in their goggles and gators. “Wicked,” he says. “Y’know, I’ve never been night skiing.” 

“Me neither,” Harry mutters. 

Their conversation is cut short by Marc calling to them and pointing down the hill. “Meet you at the bottom, then?”

Harry just shrugs and is met by Louis and Zayn taking off before he can even gather himself, Niall and Liam standing just after and zipping down on their boards. 

Harry has never related to the saying “on top of the world” more. 

* * * 

As the sky gets darker, they lose track of each other. New Zealand is less uptight than Fiji was. They’re allowed to ski without a guide, and they’re not required to be with each other at all times. By the second run, they’ve set a meetup time of half past eight at the base lodge where Megs is waiting with their handcrafted dinner of sandwiches that they’d made back at the Crib. They’re all about the same speed, the same level, but people take different turns and manage to get lost in the darkness of the mountain despite the lights scattered throughout the runs. 

Harry finds himself sticking by at least one person, enjoying the freedom and the newness but not the underlying fear of being alone in an unfamiliar place. Louis is easy to spot with a bright red jacket and the band of his goggles to match. He’s a blur of speed, always hooting as he goes down the mountain and making sharp turns. He makes it his job to spray Harry with snow when they come to a stop, and Harry’s poles have turned into a good self-defense mechanism. 

The chairlift rides are nice, and Harry’s not even sure how it’s managed to be just the two of them. They always pause their music for the journey up, and Harry likes that Louis likes to listen as much as he does. Initially, Harry was nervous when they’d split up. 

“D’you think that we’re meant to be with everyone else?” Harry asks. 

Louis stuffs his poles under his legs to free his hands and wraps a careless arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Harry. Marc said it was all right to split up so long as we meet up when we’re supposed to. Just keep your eye on your watch. Is my company not good enough, then?” 

Harry rolls his eyes before remembering that Louis can’t see behind his goggles. “I’m not sure, mate. We’ve only just met. Surely I can’t say if you’re good enough.”

“What are you trying to imply, Styles? Is my personality not living up to your expectations? Or is it my body? Am I a terrible roommate?” 

Harry thinks for a minute, wondering where to take this. “Downright awful, actually. Might have to take up your offer of switching with Niall after all.”

“But, Harry, we’ve not even slept together yet!” Louis shoves their legs closer together, clacks their skis. 

Harry is blushing, oh god is he blushing, but he’s got a neon orange gator covering his cheeks and reflective goggles covering his eyes, so what does Louis have to know? “Oh, is that where this is going?” 

“You’re gonna have to stick around to find out, aren’t you?” 

Louis raises the bar of the lift, stretches up his legs to grab his poles, and they get to the unloading station before Harry even has the chance to think of a response. He supposes he is going to have to stick around. 

* * *

After they regroup for dinner, they manage to do one more run for the night before retiring just after nine. They’re all a little jet lagged and very much worn down by the day, so they settle into the cars and warm up during the forty minute drive back to the Crib. Niall claims DJ in Marc’s car with the aux cord, so Harry and Louis struggle through a mix of nineties and early 2K pop punk and old American rock, sitting in mostly silence, their knees brushing as the fatigue takes control of the lack of conversation. The roads are winding and steep, and Harry keeps staring as the lights of the town grow bigger and they wind their way down the mountain. 

Louis boldly calls first shower when they get back to the house, chucking his clothing all over their room and walking across the house in just a towel, chest tanned and body lithe and slim. Harry has to control himself as he kneels on the ground at the panel of charger adapters, trying not to stare as he plugs in his phone to charge for the night. He manages to snag the second shower, Liam and Niall claiming to be morning shower people (which he doesn’t understand, especially after a day of travel like they’ve had), and Zayn saying he doesn’t mind going last. He’s met with Louis walking into their room with still just a towel around his waist, hair damp on his forehead and water dripping to his chest and collarbones. 

“You can go in now,” Louis murmurs. “S’a nice shower. Good pressure.” 

Harry makes quick work of his shower, wanting to be in, out, and back in bed. By the time he gets there Louis is staring at the wire on the side of his bed in fascination. He’s dressed in flannel pajama pants and a tank top. “Harry,” he whispers. “Come here.”

“Can I put pants on first?” Harry asks. 

“No,” Louis says. “This is important.”

“Okay…” Harry answers hesitantly, walking over to the side of Louis’ bed that’s not pressed against the wall. He squats down carefully, making sure his towel is still covering his crotch. “What’s wrong? I don’t see an issue.”

“I didn't say it was an issue,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Do you know what this is?” 

“Um, it looks like a switch to me.”

“Yes, but to what?” 

Harry looks at where the wires are running to, and then back at the remote, seeing two buttons and settings. “It looks like it’s to an electric blanket and some heating pads, like, under the sheets.”

“That’s exactly what it’s to. Why aren’t you more excited? It’s a goddamn holiday. I love when things are warm!” 

A grin spreads across Harry's face. Louis is beautifully adorable. “I love when things are warm as well. Speaking of warm things, would you like a cuppa?”

Louis smiles at him softly. “Would you mind? Can I get in bed?”

“Sure,” Harry responds. “I offered, anyway. How do you take it?”

“Well, I looked at their collection this afternoon, it’s not so extensive. But they do have Earl Grey, so I’d love that just plain, and with the bag left in? Thank you so much.” He climbs in bed as he talks, messing with the settings on the heaters and sliding under the covers until they’re up to the middle of his chest. 

Harry nods and parts the room with the door left just a crack open, finding the special water boiler machine they have in the kitchen. He’s not so sure how it works, but it’s like a quick kettle. He just presses a button and the water steams in a minute. He picks two mugs and adds a splash of milk and a bit of sugar to his, and it only takes about five minutes before he’s nudging the door open with his foot and bring a cup to Louis. He sets his on the table and goes to shut door. 

By the time he’s about ready to get in bed, he realizes something. “I’m still in my towel, aren’t I?” he says aloud. 

“You are indeed,” Louis says. “Thanks again for the tea by the way.” He blows on it and takes a sip. 

“No problem,” Harry murmurs. He rifles through the closet and grabs a crew neck and some briefs. “Do you mind if I change in here?”

“Be my guest,” Louis says, waving a hand around. He continues drinking his tea, and Harry’s quiet and quick as he pulls his sweater over his head and slips his on his briefs, letting his towel fall to the ground before he drops to pick it up and hang it over the door of the armoire to dry. 

Harry flicks off the lights and goes to his bed to hit the lamps instead, curling up in the duvet on his bed that’s a little itchy, but certainly better than the poor excuse for a sheet he used whilst in Fiji. He fiddles with the settings of the heating pads on his left, turning it to a happy medium and tightening the blankets around him. He sips his tea and looks over at Louis, who’s staring a little dazedly at the wall. 

“Louis?” Harry asks, voice suddenly more hushed now that they’re in dim lighting and separate beds. 

Louis snaps out of it, meets Harry’s eyes above the lamp that’s sending a milky yellow over the room. “Hmm?” he hums, not quite sleepy but just unfocused. 

“What kind of music do you like?” 

Harry’s aces at starting conversations. Completely suave, undeniably cool, and even better at it around beautiful people. 

At least he doesn’t stumble over his words. 

“Interesting topic to shoot for, curly,” Louis says, and dammit, Harry’s been caught red-handed in his lameness. “Anyway, I’m a bit all over the place.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, leaning back against the headboard, mug cradled in both of his hands and warmth shrouding his legs and tummy. Comfort slides down his throat with every sip he takes. 

“I don’t really know how to explain my music taste. It’s like, well—I don’t want to say a bit of everything because I definitely don’t listen to Christian Gospel Rock and South African Tribal music, but I can appreciate quite a wide variety if you know what I mean.” 

“I completely know what you mean,” Harry says. “Give me genres, you’ve got me interested.” 

Louis smiles in a simple way, more of a quirk of lips than anything, eyes crinkling at the corners just a little. “M’not sure what I said to get you so hooked, but I quite like pop rock, yeah? Like the Killers and them. And then more alternative-ish? Like The Fray and The Script and Bombay Bicycle Club, but I can go for some more acoustic, too. A bit of Ed Sheeran, Ben Howard; Birdy’s killing it. Arctic Monkeys are amazing. So yeah, around those types. And then whatever’s on the radio usually has me singing along.” 

Harry’s nodding, taking internal notes, keeping tabs because he’s organized like that. “You didn’t say one that I didn’t like. I completely agree.”

“Glad I meet your standards. What else though? I can tell you’ve got more. You seem like the type who runs out of space on their phone because of all the music they have.” 

Harry grins. “You read me so well. Um, I hate starting off like, saying my music taste, because I always feel like a pretentious asshole right before I get into it? But I do like indie, like The 1975 and Arcade Fire, and electronic, and folk, too. I honestly could go on for ages. I’d probably bore you.”

“Nah,” Louis mutters. “Music’s never boring, even if it’s weird.”

Harry grins again. “Have you got a favorite song?”

“Hard question. I can’t really pick, but I think a good one to always fall back on is Train’s ‘Drops of Jupiter’. Classic, that. Isn’t it a love song? S’about a girl, right?”

“It’s not, actually,” Harry says. “It’s really a sad story, if I’m honest. I don’t really know the whole thing in detail, but I know the lead singer, Pat Monahan, wrote the song about his mum who passed away. Apparently they had a really amazing bond.”

“Oh,” Louis mutters, frowning, rather affronted by his own misconception. “Christ, was I wrong.”

“S’all right. I actually saw an interview on YouTube one day when I was messing about. Otherwise I wouldn’t have really known or guessed. But love songs, yeah? So, do you have a boyfriend or something?”

“I would say or something,” Louis says, and Harry’s heart does a funny thing in his chest, feels like when the doctor squeezes the squishy thing as they’re taking your blood pressure, “but it’s nothing. No boyfriend, no something. Just me.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “same. No boyfriend.”

“There was no hot guy to hook up with in Fiji?” 

“Oh, well, plenty of them were hot,” Harry says, “but all of them were straight and half were taken. It was a little frustrating.” 

“I could imagine,” Louis laughs, lips against the rim of his mug. “How long were you there exactly?” 

Harry snorts. “Two weeks.”

“You’re dedicated.” 

“And there weren’t even proper showers. Plus we lived in tents.” 

“Thank god there’s real plumbing here then, if you know what I mean.” Harry’s biting of his lip doesn’t even hold back his chortle. “I would come give you a pat on the back for making it this far, but m’not getting up.”

“Don’t blame you,” Harry says through a big yawn. He polishes off his tea with a few bigger gulps and leaves the cup to sit on the table with a clack. Curling further into his blankets and down the mattress, he’s reluctant for the conversation to close in on itself. “Well, Lou, I’m really, really exhausted.”

“I’m quite knackered as well, actually,” Louis murmurs. “See you in the morning then?” 

“See you in the morning,” Harry echoes, soft. “G’night.”

“Night.”

Louis hits the lights, and Harry manages to still feel bright even in the darkness their little room.

•••••••••••••

_Day 2_

The morning brings Harry waking as soon as he hears noise coming from the kitchen. Louis is still curled up in the bed, looking small and golden with the early morning light coming through the window. Harry stretches, pulls on some trackies, and pads out of the room, finding Megan stretching in the living room and Marc fiddling with breakfast foods in the kitchen. 

“Morning,” he croaks, voice a little rough from sleep and eyes still tired. He scrubs a hand across his face and just kind of stands there, a little at a loss of where to go next. 

“Morning, Harry!” Megan calls. “You’re up early.”

“A bit, yeah,” he murmurs. “M’not very good at sleeping through noise.”

“You did get rest, though?” she checks. 

“Yeah! Yeah, absolutely. Those heating things on the bed are wonderful.”

“Aren’t they?” She leans forward to touch her toes, and from her bent position she asks, “You wanna join me for some morning yoga? I remember you saying that you like it.”

“That’d be lovely,” he replies. So he sits on the floor by her side and joins her in stretching. They chatter through downward dog and cobra, discussing the day’s plans for the first day of skiing and breakfast options. She talks about making lunch, too, all very amicably. Liam emerges about twenty minutes into their session, and Megan checks her watch while she’s in butterfly pose. 

“Oh, it’s almost seven now anyway. We should be waking everyone up if we wanna be out of here by eight.”

“I can wake Niall if you’d like,” Liam murmurs. 

“And I can do Louis? As we share a room.”

“You’re leaving me with Zayn, I see,” Megan laughs. 

“You could always make Marc do it,” Liam argues. 

“In your dreams!” he shouts from the kitchen. 

Harry stands from the floor and quickly stretches his back before quietly opening the door to their room. As soon as he’s stepped his food inside, he’s met with the sight of Louis waking, and he’s beautiful. He stretches up, tank top rising up his torso and biceps tensing. “Morning,” Harry gets out. 

“Hey,” Louis mumbles quietly, back pressed up against the headboard. “You just watching me then?” 

Harry chuckles awkwardly. “No, I actually came to wake you up, but you beat me to it, I suppose.”

Louis rolls his shoulders. “I suppose I did.” He pauses. “Breakfast’s out there?” 

“Should be. Tea, too.”

“The way to my heart,” Louis murmurs. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Harry nods before parting, closing the door behind him and trying to compose himself. He’s a little infatuated, maybe, but he barely knows this boy and yet it feels like his soul is embossing on him. He smooths his crew neck and messes with his hair. 

They’re going skiing today. 

Everyone regroups (post a little moaning and groaning from Zayn) just after five or so minutes, and they’re left to a simple buffet. It feels like the breakfast they serve you at a hotel where it’s the only meal included. There’s some cereals, granola, precut fruits, yogurt, and protein bars. Everyone’s left to sort of fend for themselves, and Harry makes quick work of fixing a bowl of yogurt with chopped fruits and granola. 

As soon as he sits down at the table, Louis scoffs at him. “Honestly, Harold? Granola?” 

Harry tugs his bowl closer to his body. “Excuse me, Lewis. This is a completely healthy, well-rounded, and delicious meal.” 

Louis looks down at his bowl of sugary, chocolate, New Zealand-brand cereal and back at Harry’s yogurt blend. “You can’t call that delicious when you have at least four different types of disgustingly sugary cereal in front of you. You just can’t. It’s basically sin.” 

“I’m going to have to agree,” Niall says, slurping some of the milk from his bowl. 

Harry shrugs. “I am going to have lots of energy on the mountain today, so. Obviously, I am the winner.”

Louis just shakes his head and raises his spoon to his mouth, grinning. 

* * * 

It’s just over an hour car ride. Harry’s kind of in love with New Zealand. He’s falling for it differently than the way he fell for Fiji; Fiji was immediate—palm trees and white beaches and people sweeter than the candied coconuts that they’d give them for dessert some nights. Fiji was love at first sight. New Zealand is all aesthetics, because there’s not been much culture for him to dive into yet. Because it’s much more modernized and developed than the islands, it’s taking time for the realization of how foreign a place he really is in. Queenstown had, at first, felt like any town, but now, driving in the car with his glued to the window, he realizes this is no UK village. 

They drive through valleys to get to the snow, pass herds of sheep and deer, fall inferior to the peaks of the mountains. There’s green grass at the ground and blue skies that meet blue waterways and white clouds that shroud white mountain caps. They climb around in circles to reach the very beginning of the snow, and Harry’s in love with New Zealand being different. 

* * * 

Harry sticks to Louis in a way that he finds uncontrollable. He feels like a bull drawn to the red of his jacket. By the second run, they’ve already gone to a different part of the mountain because Louis saw some crazy run down the bowl on the back and Harry just can’t resist saying yes.

Louis leads the two of them down, shouting just for the hell of it, the run empty and the two of them continually cutting each other off. By the time they’re back at the base, there’s two sets of heavy breathing lungs, and Harry can’t fight his grin. He doesn’t even have to speak to enjoy Louis’ company; he knows it has to be something special. 

They cram themselves too close together on the lift, and Harry tells himself it’s to keep warm, but it’s sunny and just barely freezing outside. 

“Even though you’re not a fan of planes, what’s your opinion on chairlifts?” Louis asks Harry as they move closer together on the three-pack.

Harry lifts his leg and tucks his poles underneath his thigh, freeing his hands to grip the bar. “Um. I’m all right, I suppose. I’m not really a heights guy, but I’ve been skiing since I could walk, so I’m usually okay. It depends on the lift. If it’s really rickety I tend to freak myself.”

“How ‘bout right now?” Louis murmurs, he’s wiggling his foot back and forth in his boot, ski swinging. 

“M’all right. Distracted, anyhow. Sometimes when I ski in the US the lines are so long I have to take the singles up, so I’ll be on a lift with a bunch of strangers who don’t say a word.”

“Talk about awkward,” Louis laughs. “You hit the parks when you’re in the States?”

Harry shrugs. “Here and there. I’ll do a box every once and a while, do a smaller jump, maybe. I prefer downhill, if I’m honest.”

“Moguls?” 

“Don’t doubt my skill, Tomlinson.”

Louis chuckles. “Seems we should be having fun, then. Let’s see if Payno and Niall can actually make it down the hill on their boards, though.” 

“Liam definitely. He’s got too nice of a board to not be proficient. Did you see it? I don’t even ride and I wanted it.” 

“You don’t ride?” Louis asks, and Harry knows he’d be smirking if there was no gator covering mouth, and that his eyes would be glinting if the goggles hiding them didn’t reflect a metallic blue of Harry’s face. “I guess I’ve mistaken you.” 

Harry flushes and slaps Louis’ arm, knocking their skis together. “Maybe not. You don’t know all my secrets yet.”

“I don’t know if it’s a secret, Harry.” 

“So, Louis, tell me about yourself.” 

“‘Tell me about yourself?’ I must admit, I expected more of a chat-up from you.” 

“Well, we played more icebreakers in Fiji; surprisingly, they worked. I’ve forgotten how to be properly social.”

“Well, we played a rousing game of icebreaking Uno.” 

It’s true. They had played a very intense game of Uno that first afternoon at the Crib. They had the Pokémon edition of the cards. All kinds of rousing. 

Harry laughs, remembering. “Either way, I’m still curious. You’re eighteen, right? Going to uni in the fall?”

“I am, I am. But school’s boring. No point in talking about in summer, right?” Louis looks down at his skis. “Well, Winter. August, whatever. Yeah.”

“Can’t even tell me where you’re going?” 

“University of Manchester. But it’s all I’ve been talking about for the past year of me life, mate. Let’s talk about something interesting instead, like music or summat. Or the way Niall fucking wiped out when he thought he could do the rail.”

Harry laughs again. “I’d go for the latter. You reckon any of them can actually hit the park?” 

“Zayn definitely,” Louis mutters. “Can’t invest in skis like his and not actually be able to go off any jumps.” 

“True,” Harry murmurs. “Maybe he just wants to look cool though?”

“He doesn’t need fancy skis to look cool, Harry. He’s cool on his own.”

“You’re just putting me to shame then aren’t you?” 

Louis shrugs, puts a hand on Harry’s knee. “Sorry, babe. M’ just being honest.”

Babe. 

The lift may be going up, but Harry can tell he’s on a one way track down when it comes to Louis. 

* * * 

Louis brought a Cup Noodle for lunch, and he’s currently blowing on the steam. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a bit matted to his forehead, but the hollow in his cheeks is distracting. Harry can’t stop staring. 

“You better not slurp,” Zayn warns, eyeing him. 

Louis shrugs. “Sorry, mate. It happens.” He raises his eyebrows, and Harry nearly chokes.

“Louis,” Liam chastises, meanwhile Niall is cracking up and Zayn’s wearing one of the bigger smiles they’ve seen on him so far.

“What?” Louis mutters. “Sometimes I can be noisy!” 

“Louis!” Liam groans. 

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll try to hold myself back. It might not be easy. I tend to go a bit crazy when I’m not allowed to play.”

“With yourself,” Marc adds, and then everyone is losing it. 

Megan facepalms. 

Harry is disgustingly red in his cheeks, but whatever. He eats his sandwich blushing, but with dignity. Totally. 

* * * 

“You two seem quite cuddled up,” Liam comments when they’re home, after showers. 

Harry’s got one of his playlists going throughout the house; nothing too loud, but not quiet enough to put them to sleep. They had been playing spoons for a while, but the game grew old quickly, so now they’re just sitting around, waiting for dinner and relaxing in the house’s heat. So he and Louis are pressed up together on the couch, Louis’ arm around his shoulder, their pinkies brushing, legs touching.

It doesn’t feel strange, is the thing. Nothing they’ve said or done with each other has felt strange. All of this is natural and Louis is warmth. 

Niall stretches around a bit in his spot on the couch. “Yeah…” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Are you sure you weren’t already friends?”

Louis shrugs and meets Harry’s eyes. The elephant in the room comes and sits itself directly on Harry’s chest. It suddenly feels harder to breathe while Louis is looking at him. “Nope. Right, H?” 

“Yeah,” Harry manages. “Just got on right from the word go.” He shrugs as well. “It just kind of happened.”

“Amazing things can happen from sharing a room and talking a bit on the chairlift, lads.” 

Chef Marc whips up a delicious dinner, and the boys pile onto the couch to watch some horror movie that Harry doesn’t know the name of. He and Louis return to their spot on the couch, but Harry’s paying more attention to the window and the arm around the back of his neck than the film on the television. He flinches at some of the noises and at all of the screaming. 

Harry doesn’t like horror. 

“I think I need to go to bed,” Harry announces. It’s totally not because the film’s getting scary. Honestly, he’s exhausted. 

“A little gore scare you, Styles?” Louis teases. 

Harry frowns but stands anyway, even to tired to argue it. “Just a bit worn out. I think it’s the jet lag from Fiji.” 

“Is that even how the time difference works out?” Zayn mumbles. 

Niall elbows him in the side. “Let the kid sleep. More couch room for us anyhow.” He unfurls his limbs to take up the space that Harry was just in.

Zayn elbows him back. “If you take up his spot, it’s only more couch room for you.”

“Whatever,” Niall murmurs. “I love this couch. It should be my new home.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and walks away, ignoring them aside from his little call of, “Goodnight, guys.” 

Harry changes into sweatpants and a loose shirt, brushes his teeth, and turns on the electric blanket. He curls up with the notebook that’s found a home on his nightside table and writes about his day, the long, long drive to the mountain. He probably goes into too much depth about the fields of sheep and deer, the valley, and the snow peaks that never stop chasing above their heads, but it’s too beautiful of a place to not document. His handwriting gets messier as his eyes grow more tired, but he manages to end his entry at the very end of his day, clicking his pen with a satisfying feeling and exchanging his notebook for the point-and-shoot camera that lives next to it. 

He scans through the pictures he took earlier today, yesterday, and then through the thousands he took in Fiji that he looked at every hour on the plane. He’s only about halfway in when the door creaks open and Louis steps in, sheepish in his flannel pajama pants and big hoodie. Harry smirks at him. 

“Did the movie end prematurely?”

Louis scowls but walks toward Harry’s bed anyway. He nudges Harry’s hip. “Budge over. I wanna see those pictures you took today.” 

Harry bites his lip as he scoots over, feeling the bed dip with Louis’ weight and his side warm with their bodies pressed together. “I’m in the Fiji ones right now, but I can go back if you want?” 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes, and something tight coils in his chest. He has to press a hand to his abdomen as he breathes in. Louis puts a hand on his leg, and it doesn’t really help. “No,” Louis murmurs. “It’s okay. You can keep going through them. I’m curious about this place that you’re so attached to.” 

Harry blushes a little. He hasn’t been distant, not really. But the movie wasn’t really his cup of tea and his mind had drifted back to the islands without his consent. His finger hovers over the button that changes the picture. “Most of these next ones are the videos from my GoPro. It’s all one card, but this camera isn’t compatible with those files. I think they’re the manta ray videos, if I don’t have the days mixed up.” 

“Sick!” Louis says. “You’ll show me them some time?”

Harry flicks through the ten or so videos he took, that day in the cool water clearer than he’d ever seen it. It was kind of cloudy, he remembers, but he could see meters and meters below him, schools of fish racing their way from the manta rays that sailed right beneath his toes. He chased them until he was breathless, mask fogging and swimming trunks probably falling off. He remembers laughing with everyone on the surface, being filled with a type of adrenaline that he can’t quite match with any other kind that he’s experienced. 

He must have blanked out because Louis nudges at his hip. “H?” 

“Oh,” Harry mutters. “Sure, I’d love to. Maybe tomorrow, though. I don’t really wanna get up.”

“Don’t blame you,” Louis responds. “Proper knackered, I am. Can I see a few before I nod off then?” 

Harry starts to flick through the photos again, feeling nostalgia settle in his chest at the pictures of his friends from the trip, making silly poses in the water and on the boats, with the Fijians and kids from the schools they taught at. His heart aches for water and sand, but then Louis is talking and he remembers blankets and snow, and this close proximity. 

“You really loved it there, didn’t you?” he says, voice getting lower, quieter. 

“It was an unexplainable feeling, being in Fiji,” Harry responds. He doesn’t even take the time to think about his response. It all just spews out of him. “I’ve never felt more immersed in a culture. The people were a joy—the locals and the kids with Rustic. I can’t even describe it.”

Louis sinks a little further down the bed. “It’s kind of refreshing to see someone so passionate.” 

“It was a beautiful place. I love beautiful places. I love beautiful things.” He can’t really help himself when he makes eye contact with Louis. It’s just the way he’s wired. He’s been looking at Louis from the second they stepped off the plane in Auckland. A blush colors Harry’s cheeks anyway. 

“Cheeky, love,” Louis tells him, meeting his eyes without hesitance. “Is this your try at subtleness?”

“I’m not very good at subtle,” Harry admits, he looks at his hands, the photo displayed in his lap, back at Louis. 

“I can tell.” Louis is speaking want to Harry’s lips. He leans in close, their breaths becoming one, their eyelashes close enough to cast shadows on each other’s cheeks. “Y’know technically we’re not supposed to do this.”

Harry’s not sure why Louis is still talking if he can feel hands on his waist and their mouths so close that he can predict the words about to come out of Louis’ mouth. “What did they call it?” He plays along anyway. Harry yearns; Louis is beautiful. “Purpling?”

“Oh, yes. Well. In all technicalities we’re not breaking any rules, right? Seeing as we’re both boys, yeah? It’s just a whole lot of blue.” 

Blue. Harry can work with blue. It’s Fiji’s oceans and New Zealand’s skies and the color of Louis’ warming eyes. 

Harry just blinks owlishly, licks his lips; then Louis kisses him. It’s not fast. There’s no moment of resistance, no delay. It’s Louis’ soft mouth against his and warm hands on his hips under the heated blanket. He feels—he doesn’t know what he feels. He feels thumbs tracing circles into his stomach; he feels Louis’ chest pushing against his, the way his leg moves a little bit again’s Harry’s thigh like he wants to climb on top of him; he feels this heat, and he can’t tell if it’s just shrouding the room or covering Harry’s skin. They kiss for minutes and minutes, a wet smack of their lips and a soft brush of Harry’s nose against Louis’ cheek. 

When he pulls back, he knows that his cheeks are ruddy. Louis kisses one. 

“Blue,” Harry repeats. “Okay.”

Louis kisses his neck. “Okay.” He flicks off the lamp next to them, curls into Harry’s side. “I’m staying here.”

The bed is small but Harry can’t bring himself to mind. He doesn’t know what to say, just wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulder and lets him fold into his chest. 

“You’re coming heli-skiing tomorrow, right?” Harry whispers, like the sudden darkness means too much for their voices. 

“I would never miss something so monumental. Will we ever get such an opportunity again?” 

Harry pauses. “Maybe. If you want it enough.”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so positive.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He meets Louis’ shiny eyes in the black light, and Louis kisses his forehead, soft and gentle. They don’t discuss it. They don’t discuss any of it. 

“Goodnight, H. Gonna sled tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

So it is. 

•••••••••••••

_Day 3_

A van picks them up at 7:30. There’s not enough room on the choppers for Marc to come with them, so it’s the five boys and another couple from Australia in the car. It’s the longest drive to a mountain of the trip, so they have two and a half hours of sitting. It’s easy though, with a conversation that ebbs as the roads weaves. Harry finds it comfortable to just relax, rest his head against the window and let his pinky brush Louis’ thigh. 

When they arrive, the ride seems to have gone quickly. They exit the van in a field, next to pastures of sheep upon sheep and deer running about. The sky is completely clear. Harry is exhilarated. People arrive in different vans, and as a grand total, there’s about fifteen skiers with their guides. Everyone is given a briefing on avalanches, following the guide, mounting and dismounting the helicopter, and the terrain they’re going to be on. 

When they finally are attached to radios, suited up, and ready to go, the five of them huddle on the ground around their bundled up skis and boards. Louis’ hand plants firmly on top of Harry’s, and when they get the okay, they all pile in. Harry has his GoPro today, and the light is blinking to capture them getting on their ride up. It still feels surreal to be on the ground in grass and on the mountain in snow. 

The chopper is worse than a plane. His stomach feels like it’s in his throat and then in his knees, and his hand scrambles for purchase in his glove. Louis is watching him, and he can feel it. So they hold hands. It’s good. When they land, it feels like they’re going to fall off the side of the mountain. Louis squeezes his palm and lets him climb out first. But with his feet on the ground and the helicopter gone, he feels like he can conquer worlds. 

Their guide leads them down, and with Louis following behind him, screaming, “Holy mother _fuck_!” all Harry can do is laugh with him. 

The snow is like a natural park, with a half pipe formed by wind and valleys making jumps. It’s the best snow and most beautiful day Harry could ask for. 

The helicopter rides are less scary with a hand to hold and they’re full of chatter too loud for a such a small space, but it feels good to be so happy with these people. It feels good to seem like life is so easy, even in the air. After three runs with the helicopter picking them up, they land for lunch, surrounded by vast nothingness, the sun warming their cheeks and making the snow glint like diamonds on the hands of newly-engaged twenty-somethings. 

The crew lines up an array of ingredients for sandwiches, pizza, soups, and coffee on the ledge of the compartment attached to the helicopter that stores their skis. Harry and Louis eat a little further away from everyone. It feels like they’re in their own world, like the few square meters of space that they sit in is a whole new mountain meant for just the two of them to ski on. 

“So,” Louis mutters through a slice of pizza, eyes straying from the mass of people mingling to look at Harry, “are the conditions meeting your expectations, curly?”

Harry snorts, because he can be witty, yeah? “I dunno, mate, I think the amount of times we've screamed ‘holy _fuck_!’ whilst going down a grand total of three runs is kind of a dead give away.”

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, but we could always be saying ‘holy fuck this is terrible!’ y’know?” 

Okay, so Louis can be witty, too. Harry knew this. 

“Well, the conditions are wonderful, to answer your question.”’

“Ah, yes. I’m glad we’re on the same page here.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, polishing off his coffee and flopping back into the snow, thankful for the beanie he wears under his helmet as his head hits the snow. He stares up at the puffy clouds, waiting for Louis to fall back with him, and somehow knowing that he will. He has so much to say. He’s reached that point in their friendship where he just wants to know everything about Louis, where he wants to sit him down and know his opinion on everything, to just talk and talk and talk. 

When Louis’ head is finally next to his on the snow, Harry says, “Is this not the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?”

Louis looks him directly in the eye and says, “A close second, I’d say.”

Harry blushes obscenely, sunrise red, but chokes out, “Subtle, Lou.”

“I’m not very good at subtle,” Louis responds in a low voice, and Harry gapes, eyes narrowing in offense. 

“Are you mocking me?” 

Louis waves a hand around, and it looks like it’s floating in the blue of the sky. “Perhaps.”

“You’re an absolute arse,” Harry growls. 

Louis props himself up on one arm, leaning over Harry with an overbearing presence that sends armies of emotions charging through Harry’s skin. Harry stays glued to Louis’ eyes like his mother to the morning news. “Oh, but you don’t mean that, love.” 

“Don’t I?” Harry asks. 

“No,” Louis states firmly. “You don’t.” He swoops down to peck Harry’s forehead before falling back into the snow, letting their hands brush but not tangle, bodies touch but not mold. 

It takes a while after that for words to come out of their mouths, breathing in a silence that’s no so much stale as it is serene. Their moments in the undisturbed quiet on a mountain that’s not been touched so often by man must look like the lake in the early morning, with nothing there to bother it, no ripples to touch the shore, just smooth openness. Words aren’t needed to communicate, only brushing pinkies and warm breath sending mist to join the clouds. 

Louis speaks up first, and he says, “Why did you come on this trip?” 

And the simplest answer would be to say it was for fun, but it’s more than that. It seems like for them, it’s always going to be more than that. It takes time for Harry to articulate. He speaks slowly. “In the beginning, I think, these trips were always to just get away? Sometimes I can’t stand how small and drab my village is. Like, I love it there, I really, really, do, but there’s so much more to see. It’s not like I’m always thinking about escaping, but there will be times where my routine that I do every day just gets so _old_. And then I remember everywhere else I could be and wonder why I’m not there.” 

Louis doesn’t look at him, but he locks their pinkies and breathes so heavily that the mist that comes from his mouth looks like he’s been smoking a cigarette. “You travel a lot, then?” he asks. 

“Not as much as I’d like to,” Harry confesses. “But this is the most I’ve done, like, ever. Especially on my own. It took my mum some convincing to let me go this far. This time last year she’d barely let me get on a train to London.” Harry pauses, training his eyes on the cloudless sky, making mountains in his mind. “Do you travel a lot?”

“Nah,” Louis admits. “I mean, sometimes my family and I go to Brighton for the beach, our me and my mates will go to France to ski, which is travel, I suppose, but this is my first time out of Europe.” 

“And way off, too! We’re really far away, y’ever think about that?” 

Louis laughs at him—softly, warmly, like how the sun on their cheeks feels. “Every day, H. We’re on the other side of the fucking world.”

“When I’m at home and I think about all the places I could be, I tend to make myself crazy. It feels good to not worry about it.” 

“Yeah, well. You’re here now.” 

Here. 

Harry might like the sound of that. 

* * * 

It’s Zayn that has to tell Harry and Louis that during lunch the helicopter broke down. 

“What?” Louis mutters. “What do you mean it ‘broke down?’”

“Yeah, you guys were off, like, chatting or snogging or doing whatever you guys do—“ Louis narrows his eyes, Harry bristles “—and they had to call in for a baby helicopter to come fix the big helicopter. It was actually quite scary. I thought we were gonna be stuck for a mo’.” 

“Oh,” Louis says. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah, it was quite shit,” Liam agrees. He gently pats Niall, whose head just slipped on his shoulder from where it was leaning against the window. He’s asleep, mouth open and everything, and Harry reckons he’d be the same way had Louis not stolen one of his ear buds and demanded he DJ’d their way home (churning thoughts and winding roads aside). 

“How did we not notice?” Harry wonders, even though he knows. He knows and it should hurt but it feels too good. He can’t even bring it to be bittersweet. He loves the bliss that comes from being connected with someone. It just _happens_. 

“I suppose we were off in our own world?” Louis says. “Distracted, yeah. We were a bit far away from everyone.”

“A bit, yeah,” Harry echoes. He clears his throat, fixes his beanie. “Is that why it seemed like they gave us a really long lunch?”

“Yeah, they were trying to get to start for like, a half hour.” 

Louis scratches his head and shrugs. “Personally, I thought they were giving us a leisurely afternoon in the sun. Regardless, I appreciated the time to relax.” 

Zayn merely shakes his head in disdain, and Harry changes the song to John Mayer. 

They don’t get home until after five, by which time they’re all hungry, tired, and in desperate need of a wee. Louis calls first shower yet again, essentially stripping as they climb the stairs and power walking his way to the bathroom. The boys find the house smelling like curry, Marc blasting club music and dancing at the stove, and Megan stretching on the floor. 

Immediately, Niall goes to the stereo and proceeds to turn it up even louder. 

“Marc!” he exclaims. “Can you twerk?” 

“Not in these jeans!” 

Louis peaks his head out of the bathroom door. “If I slip and fall in the shower from dancing, I blame all of you.”

“You’re gonna miss Marc twerking!” Zayn says. 

“What?” Louis is suddenly interested, and in all truth, Harry doesn’t blame him. 

“I’m not twerking,” Marc mutters. “Niall, turn that down a little. I can’t yell all night. And Louis, go shower, you filthy child.” 

“I’m eighteen!” Louis shouts, but he slams the door anyway. 

What a warm welcome home. 

* * * 

There’s no movie after dinner this time. Marc organizes a rousing game of charades, and by the pick of a hat, he’s on a team with Harry and Louis, and Liam, Zayn, Niall, and Megan on the other. Harry may dabble with fate. By the fifth round, Liam’s getting fed up.

“How the bloody hell do you guys understand each other so easy?” Liam mutters. “It’s like they can read minds.”

Harry, Louis, and Marc have an evident lead, guessing movies, books, and shows in a pinch and completely smashing it. 

“I beg to differ,” Louis argues, folding his arms from where’s he’s standing after his turn. “We’re just highly immersed in pop culture and have outstanding communication skills.”

“Nah,” Zayn sighs. “You two have a freaky connection. It’s been three days.”

Harry’s stomach twists. There’s not enough air in his lungs. The poor lighting of the house still makes Louis’ hair shine gold. The music isn’t loud enough to stop the thumping in his temples. 

“Technically four,” Marc says. “But either way, you guys are obviously jealous of our clearly more advanced charades expertise.” 

“Dream Team!” Louis shouts, and he tackles Harry into the couch, straddling his crossed legs and giving him two high fives. “Anyway, shall we carry on? Megan, I do believe it’s your turn.”

“I do believe you’re correct, Louis. Now, Team Megan, let’s kick ass!” 

“Team Megan?” Marc scoffs. “Honestly, I expected more from you. You’re never gonna win with a name like that. Team Marc has a much nicer ring. The same syllable count, and that. Megan’s just a mouthful.” 

Megan flips him off. 

From Harry’s lap, Louis speaks into his shoulder, words slightly muffled. “Well if you ask me, Tommo’s Team is a real winner, so there’s that. Can’t go wrong with alliteration. Ask any primary school teacher.” 

Megan just shakes her head and makes Marc start the timer. 

(The Dream Team wins.)

* * * 

Quite literally as soon as they close the door to their room, Harry is breathless. The wind is knocked out of him and it’s got ways to go before coming back. He blinks heavily, and suddenly his shirt feels too tight and his joggers are like booby traps. His feet feel glued to the floor right by the door. Louis makes his way into bed, messing with the switches to warm himself up and staring at Harry’s locked knees. 

“You gonna come to bed?” 

Harry’s seen Mean Girls, but he’s never experienced word vomit quite like this. “Can I kiss you again?” 

He watches Louis take a constricted breath, suddenly seeming untouchable, even if he’s curled up in a hoodie and a floral duvet. He reaches for his mug on the night table, hiding his face behind a porcelain rim. He takes a sip and swallows audibly, and Harry feels like he’s standing in quicksand: immobile, sinking, sinking, sinking. “You’d like that?”

Harry going to choke on his tongue. “I, um—” He closes his eyes to breathe. “Only if you would.” 

He watches Louis’ throat as takes another sip of tea. 

“Sorry if I, like, um…” He’s not even sure where to begin, let alone end. 

“Come here, yeah?” 

Precariously, Harry sits himself on the edge of Louis’ bed. 

Louis sighs. “Properly come here.” Harry lets a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth, and he takes Louis tea when it’s handed to him. After placing it on the table, he’s just barely tucked under Louis’ arm, and he’s never felt this rigid under someone’s touch. “Relax,” Louis breathes, and his voice gives him the same goosebumps that the wind did when it blew white caps onto the water in Fiji. Louis presses his lips warm from tea against Harry’s neck, and this time Harry’s shivers feel like a tremor from the Earth’s plates—there’s something colliding and Harry can’t help but think it might be the two of them.

“You can kiss me if you want,” he whispers, lips trailing Harry’s neck, his jaw. “Sorry if I scared you there, love. It’s quite nice to kiss you.” 

“Is it?” Harry asks. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Harry lets himself grin, and Louis drags his lips a little further up Harry’s cheek, just to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got such a pretty smile, Harry. Put it to good use?” 

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Louis renders him speechless yet again, finding his way onto Harry’s lap, a place he seems to have taken a liking to, and kissing him quiet, hands coming to cup Harry’s cheeks and their bodies sinking together. Whatever that connection is, that Zayn said, he feels it. Harry feels it where their lips drag together, where their legs tangle, where heart beats many not match up but make a melody that floats through atmospheres— both this one, and their own.

They make out without anything to keep time, and eventually they fizzle out, tired from the long day and lips a little bruised. Louis collapses onto Harry’s body when they finally pull apart, his body warm and thrumming against Harry’s chest. “You’re warm,” Harry says. 

“And you’re a _genius_ ,” Louis laughs. 

Harry flicks his upper arm. “Oi! I just let you snog me for like, an hour.” 

“First of all, that was _not_ an hour. Also, _let_ you?” 

“Whatever,” Harry mutters. “Just be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” Louis argues. “When I go to France _ils disent que je suis gentil_.”

“You speak French?” Harry asks. 

“Uh, not quite. I took it in school but I’m actually pretty bad at it. I can just scrape by when I go there.”

“It’s such a nice language, though. Sounds much prettier than English.” 

“I agree,” Louis says. “I wish I tried harder when I took it.”

“Can’t you take it in uni?” Harry asks. “You said you’re going to Manchester, right?” 

“I could,” Louis starts, “but I’d quite like to pass all of my classes, thanks. And yeah, I’m going to Manchester.” 

“Maybe you just need to stay there for an extended period of time, get a more in-depth study of the language.” 

“Ah, in my dreams, Harold. In my dreams. I’ll have to get two jobs then.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah, I suppose money sucks, doesn’t it.”

“A bit,” Louis murmurs. “But whatever. Enough about me, let’s talk about you. You think you’re gonna study abroad in uni?”

“Gotta make it through sixth form first, but I’d hope to. I’d love to go to France or Spain, maybe. I think there’s so much you can learn from being in different cultures. That’s why I loved Fiji so much.”

Louis sits up to kiss him again, capturing Harry’s mouth without warning. He’s powerful in his movements, pulling back with a firm smack of their lips and looking him straight in the eye when he says, “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

Harry flushes bright red, but he’s not sure if that can suffice as a response. 

“Now, show me some of you pictures again, will you? We got preoccupied last time.” 

Harry snorts, “Preoccupied,” but he reaches for his camera as Louis clambers off of him, curling back into his side. “Want your tea?”

Louis sighs. “Reckon it’s gone cold by now.”

“Right,” Harry murmurs. He turns on his camera, and it opens to the photos he took today, from the top of the world. “Can I show you the ones of the church?” he asks. 

“Of course,” Louis says. “Whichever. I’m sure they’re all wonderful.” 

“I can’t say they’re the highest quality, but this little guy did its job.” He flicks through hundreds of pictures until he gets to the ones closer to the end, displaying rickety, mismatched, wooden pews and dozens of smiling faces. “I think this was one of my favorite days of the whole trip. It was the second to last, Sunday, and we went into the village where one of the Fijian kids took us to their homes. Most of them can speak broken English, and a little girl who was about eleven told me to call her Lia, and then she took me to meet her family. Here—look.” Harry flicks through more of the pictures, changing them as the story develops. “She lived with her mother, father, two siblings, and her grandparents. She told me about school and fishing, and it was literally so amazing to be so immersed. She gave me fresh yams, corn, and tea, and then she gave me a seashell necklace that her mother made.

“It’s in my bag somewhere. Afterwards, we went back to the church for another hour where they presented a sermon in English and Fijian, and I can tell you that I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I’m not super religious, but I’ve never seen happier people even in a place that can be so devastating. I never wanted to sing church songs more. I would relive that day over and over again. I just felt so—so connected.” 

He flicks through a more photos until they change into ones of the water, and Louis takes his hand. “I think you’re my new aspiration,” he tells Harry. “I honestly hope to get as much out of everything as you do. You’ve got a beautiful mind.” 

“Something tells me that you’ve got one too.” _A beautiful heart_. 

“You’re just lovely, okay? I’m so glad you shared that story with me. I can really see how you got so attached to it.” He shifts his weight back into the pillows. “Turn of the lights, will you? Can you tell me another story before we go to bed? I’ll look at more pictures tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “Yeah, of course.” Harry is trapped beneath the pressure of the sea but there’s something free about it. Louis is freeing. 

He flicks off the lights and turns off his camera. “Can I stay here?”

“Can’t rely on just a heated blanket to keep me warm, can I?” 

He certainly could, but Harry shifts down the bed, a little unsure if he should keep touching so much. Louis throws a leg between Harry’s instead, and they curl together on an account that can’t be controlled. 

“What kind of story do you wanna hear?” Harry asks. 

“I dunno. Anything.” 

“The water there was the surest blue I’d ever seen. I’m so glad they have a lot of the space protected. I can’t believe I got to snorkel national parks.”

“Oh yeah!” Louis exclaims. “You were doing Marine Biology, right?”

Harry yawns, murmurs, “Yeah. We got to snorkel and count fish and sea grass and stuff. It wasn’t very hard or in-depth, but it felt really wonderful to give back and do something that I loved at the same time. God, if I could do _that_ for the rest of my life. Could you imagine?”

“Wouldn’t you miss the snow then, love?” Louis teases. 

“M’only a plane away from New Zealand, aren’t I?”

“Touché.” 

Harry yawns. “M’tired, Lou.”

“Sleep then, babe.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“For what?” 

Harry snuffles his nose into Louis’ neck. “Listening to me. Connecting to me. Being you. I’m not sure. But thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis chuckles, soft, like their legs tangling in the warmed sheets and quiet, like brushing fingertips—loud only with feeling. “Goodnight, H.”

“Night, Lou.”

•••••••••••••

_Day 4_

They wake up to the Remarkables with a fresh foot of powder waiting for their skis to carve it up. Naturally, Harry and Louis hit the bumps all day. Marc and Zayn come and go, but Liam and Niall are adamant about staying in the park. (Harry is confident it’s because they can’t do moguls on their snowboards, but they argue that the fresh snow makes the landing on the jumps nicer. Whatever.)

“When was the last time you had conditions like this?” Louis exclaims, leg jumping excitedly, knee jostling next to Harry’s. Harry lays his hand over it, because he can do that now, right? More than he could before, anyway, because they’ve kissed and that’s got to break some borders. Louis lets his hand drop on top of his, expression giddy with the smile on his face showing, all bright and shining like the refractions in the snow. 

“God, I can’t even remember,” Harry murmurs. “Never, I’d say. Like, New Zealand’s mountains are so different than anywhere I’ve ever skied. Sure, when I went to Colorado when I was a lot younger we got a huge dumping of snow, but, like, I couldn’t appreciate it as much? I was so young.”

“How old were you?” Louis asks. 

“Maybe twelve? I mean, that’s not ridiculously young but I’m still a much more, erm, proficient skier now, I guess.” 

“No, I understand. I mean, I can’t even say I’ve had conditions like this either. I fucking love powder, d’you know that?”

Harry laughs, wishes their hands wouldn’t get cold if they took off their gloves and tangled their fingers properly. Instead he looks at the blackness of their pants next to each other and thinks of how different they are from the snow. “I can tell,” he marvels, in awe of some much at once it’s making his chest hurt. “It feels good to ski with you.” He pauses. “Like, just saying, yeah?”

Louis nudges him with his elbow. “Yeah, yeah, curly. Feels good.” He knocks their elbows together and lifts the safety bar over their heads, yanking his hand away and grabbing his poles from under his leg, beautifully jittery as he turns around at the mountain that never seems to stop unfolding around the two of them. 

* * * 

During lunch, coincidentally, they both have to take a piss, and they end up snogging in the toilet. It makes for a memorable afternoon. 

* * * 

“Would you wanna wake up early with me tomorrow so we can catch the sunrise?” Zayn’s lounging on the couch, sketching loosely in a book with some pencils. 

Harry snorts as he comes around the bend of the staircase from the kitchen. “I thought you weren’t an early riser?” 

“Eh. This is important. How often do you get to see a New Zealand sunrise?” 

“Good point,” Harry says. “Sure, I’d love to.” 

“Cool. Tomorrow, a bit after six?” 

Harry nods. “Sounds good.” 

“All right, awesome. I’m gonna go to bed now. See you in the morning, Harry.” 

“Yeah, I was about to head in myself. Goodnight, Zayn.” 

Zayn gets off the couch with a yawn and a stretch, walks the few short steps to his room, and closes the door behind him. He leaves Harry standing alone in the living room, feeling a little flustered with his socks on hardwood and his hand loosely gripping the railing of the stairs. He looks at the rumpled couch and the few lights coming from outside, and then back at his closed door, where Louis is surely waiting for him, perhaps going through his pictures or playing Tetris. 

He takes a strangely shaky breath, gets two glasses of water for bed, and has to lamely knock against the door with his foot. 

“Come in!” Louis shouts. 

“I can’t,” Harry whines. “I’ve not got any hands.”

“I don’t know how much I want to get up,” Louis murmurs, voice muffled through the door now that he’s not shouting. “Sorry, love.”

“Lou,” Harry says. He’s pouting and Louis can’t even see him. “I brought you water.”

Harry hears a loud sigh, and then the door opens. He takes a cup from Harry’s hands and kisses his cheek in thanks. “I can’t believe you made me get up for this.”

“Well now you’re just making me sad.”

Louis lets the corners of his mouth lift up, not quite a smirk. “My sincerest apologies.” He places his cup down on the nightside table and sits back down on the bed, spreading his legs and letting the duvet come up to just his knees, the ugly floral pattern horrid against his beautiful skin. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Harry lets himself grin as he thinks of an answer. He closes the door gently behind him and puts his cup next to Louis’, leaning a little bit over the bed. “Can I have a kiss?” 

Louis laughs at him then, rolls his eyes. “Gedere, then.” He pats the spot next to him on the tiny twin bed, twisting his fingers in the sheets and letting them go again. Harry does his best to clamber over Louis without hurting his legs, and with much struggle, he manages to sit next to him, pressed against the wall a bit, but with their lips just centimeters apart and the air much warmer around him. “Thanks for the water,” Louis says. 

“Mhm,” Harry murmurs, not really paying attention, just moving closer, letting their lips brush. Louis laughs lightly, completely directed at him, and curls his fingers in the hair at the base of Harry’s neck. They kiss for a while, quiet, a little breathless, both sitting but with bodies angled toward each other. Louis’ hands are running along Harry’s chest, his neck, the dip of his shoulders. His shirt’s neck just keeps getting pulled lower. 

Harry pulls back with red lips and a heaving chest. “Just talk it off, would you?”

Louis laughs into his jaw, nips at the corner. “Easy, babe.” He runs nimble hands under Harry’s shirt, pressing his thumbs into Harry’s hip bones and feeling him shudder as he runs his hands up high enough to move fleetingly over Harry’s nipples. He smirks when Harry shivers again, lifting up the hem of Harry’s tee to pull it over his head. 

“You too?” Harry asks. 

Louis chuckles, taking his top off and chucking it on the floor. He resumes kissing Harry, with a hot mouth and hands wandering from shoulders to chest. Harry’s hard, he’s definitely pressing against Louis’ crotch, and Louis won’t stop biting at his collarbones. Louis pulls back from the love bite he’s probably working too hard on to murmur something into his his skin, breath hot. The heating pads that cover the beds are burning into Harry’s back. 

“You’re not a virgin, are you, love?” 

“Well, I—” Harry’s breathless, too busy thinking about Louis’ lips running along his neck, his shoulders, to think about his words. “What do you consider virgin?”

Louis seems to pause at that, mouth stilling on Harry’s fiery skin and breath coming slowly through his nose, tickling Harry’s collarbone. “Has another person made you come?” He snorts quietly to himself. “Aside from porn, obviously.” 

“Oh, um. No. I’m not, yeah.” Harry’s head sinks further back into the pillow, feeling goosebumps swirl hurricanes onto his arms and legs as Louis’ lips make storms on his skin. 

“You’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve, then?” Louis asks him, fingers running down his chest and dipping into the waistband of his briefs. 

“I don’t know if I’d call them tricks…” 

“Listen, babe. If you’ve handled a few cocks in your day then, ah, you’ve got the _upper hand_ , I suppose.”

Harry chuckles quietly to himself, but his voice turns into a gasp when Louis presses his lips to the skin right beneath Harry’s navel. He palms over Harry’s clothed cock a few times, listening to Harry gasp. Louis is so utterly stunning; his hair is in his eyes, yet he’s so bright, with sharp collarbones and sharper features. 

“I can get you off, yeah?” 

Harry feels strangled, wanting to explain something but not having the words. “Can I—like. Can we do it together?” 

Louis smiles at him. It’s softer than most. It feels private. Intimate. He moves back up Harry’s chest to kiss him gently, unhurried. It’s less of a plunge and more of a slow dive. “You are lovely.”

“Would it be lame to say back atcha?” Harry wonders. He knows the answer. 

“Yes.” Louis is deadpan. But he kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth regardless. “Either way, I appreciate the sentiment. Now get your trousers off; there’s no way I’m coming in my pants.”

Harry laughs at him. “Now that’s just unacceptable.” 

Louis swats at his shoulder, dismounting Harry’s hips and shimmying out of his sweatpants. Harry watches him with his mouth a little sore and cock desperately hard. Louis bunches up his trousers at the bottom of the bed, and then he’s laying there, spread out and golden. His collarbones are sharp, figure curving, and seemingly infinite just from his presence. Harry doesn’t want him to end. He looks like a golden beach, like a wave at it’s highest; he looks like a pinnacle. 

“Don’t just stare at me then, Harry. Get your kit off or I’ll do all the work meself.” He’s gotten quieter. Perhaps the fact that they’re in a house of sleeping people, none of whom know they’ve been fucking around and two of whom told them specific rules about the consequences of fucking around. “And this has got to be quiet, yeah?” 

Harry nods, kisses Louis’ neck once, and then does a poor job of making quick work of getting rid of his pants and sweats. Louis’ got a hand on his dick, he can hear it, feel it with the subtle movement of his arm brushing against Harry’s. Once his trousers are on the ground, Louis is back on top of him, pinning him down with his weight and brushing their cocks together. 

Harry can’t explain this feeling. He’d call it electric but he knows a cliché when he sees one. Instead it’s crashing shores and it’s the way you stretch when you wake up and it’s the view from the peak of New Zealand’s finest mountain. Louis taught Harry that a few days can be a lifetime and he never wants to come down from whatever kind of apex Louis has made himself into. Lips brush his neck and a hand comes down over his cock, stroking him lightly, using quick fingers and an index tracing the head. 

Harry knows he should probably move his hand, but he’s focusing more on watching Louis’, one hand being used to prop himself up on Harry’s shoulder, and the other moving between the two of them. Harry’s biting his lip, breathing heavily through his nose and focusing on not making any noise. He raises one hand to Louis’ hip, feels the burn of his skin against his palm, and it’s all too fast, but Louis is still thumbing over the crown of his cock, stroking the both of them together, and then he comes over Louis’ fist with a breath like a bull, pulling at his bottom lip so hard it hurts. 

Louis follows soon after, collapses in on himself a little when his arm gives out, but rolls off of Harry with a laugh when he’s come down. He grabs some tissues off the table and wipes them off lazily, making grabby hands at his trousers at the bottom of the bed once he’s flopped back down. Harry sighs and leans forward to hand him his bundle of clothes. Louis thanks him with a sloppy kiss on the mouth. 

Harry has to lean over the side of the bed to grab his own sweatpants, and Louis whistles quietly. “Nice arse, H.” 

Harry rolls his eyes despite his smile and shimmies back into his now cold sweatpants from sitting crumpled on the ground. He messes with the duvet a bit, trying to pull it up to his waist. Louis is staring at his feet. 

“Did you really have sex with your socks on?”

“Yes! My feet were cold.” What’s so wrong with wearing socks? 

“You are such an odd being.” 

Harry just shrugs. He shifts down the mattress, but then pauses. “I can stay, right?” 

Louis’ brow furrows. “You have every other night. D’you not wanna?” 

“No! No, I—” Harry takes a deep breath. Louis curls into his side, flicks off the lamp. He’s warm, a little sweaty, breathing still a little off. “I like you so much, Lou.”

Louis goes tense in his arms. It takes him too long to respond. The moment feels like a lagging video. “You’re kidding yourself, love.”

“I’m not, though.” Harry’s serious. He’s so serious when perhaps he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he’d have it any other way. 

“Just don’t get ahead of yourself, yeah? Goodnight, H. This was lovely, as are you.” 

Harry goes to sleep thinking about tomorrow’s sunrise instead of tonight’s stars. 

•••••••••••••

_Day 5_

Harry wakes up when his phone buzzes under his pillow, just after six. He’s quick to shut off his alarm, not wanting to wake Louis who’s pressed into his side, breathing gentle puffs of air into his collarbone. Harry’s belly is still a little sticky from the night before, his shirt is still on the ground. His fingers find their way to Louis’ back on their own, rubbing along the nobs of his spine, gentle and fleeting, doing nothing to stir him and everything to take him in, early morning radiance and all. He looks like the starshine in Fiji on the clearest night, and there Harry felt like he could conquer galaxies.

It’s not even been ten minutes when there’s a single knock on the door, and Harry can’t decide if he wants to speak up or answer it, but Zayn steps in quietly without time for him to make up his mind. The electric blanket is covering their waists, but Zayn can see Harry’s hand rubbing patterns into Louis’ back and spelling secrets into his skin. 

He notes the way Zayn looks at him; he’s almost nonplussed about it, like he expected it all, but he still raises his eyebrows. Harry just sighs and raises two of his fingers. Zayn nods and parts, and all Harry can do is breathe a big breath. He manages to untangle himself from Louis, sitting on the edge of the bed to get his shirt. He slips it on quietly, but when his weight finally leaves the bed, Louis’ eyes sleepily open. 

“Harry?” he croaks. His hair is all over his forehead, eyes so blue against the white of the sheets. He licks his chapped lips, dry from the night he slept with his mouth pressed to Harry’s shoulder. 

“M’going to watch the sunrise with Zayn. You can go back to sleep. It won’t be long.” 

“I wanna see,” Louis murmurs. 

Harry lets himself laugh, quietly, fondly, breathlessly. “No, you want to sleep.”

“I wanna see, though.” He gropes blindly on the side table. Camera. He holds out his hand limply. “Take pictures.” 

“I will,” Harry whispers, taking the camera from Louis’ hand and kissing his forehead before he can stop himself. 

“Good,” Louis grumbles, and then he rolls over, surely back to sleep. 

Harry slips out of the room, grabbing his hoodie off of Louis’ bed and fixing the socks that he’s surprised didn’t fall off during the night. 

Zayn is on the balcony when he slips quietly out of his room, wrapped loosely in the blanket that ordinarily stays draped on the couch. His white T-shirt is thin and his feet are bare. Harry looks down at his sweatpants and hoodie. “Aren’t you cold?” he asks. 

“Of course,” Zayn says. “The sun’s barely up and it’s winter.”

“Don’t you want a jacket or something?” 

Zayn shrugs. “I should, but I feel like being cold is part of the experience.” 

Harry likes Zayn. Harry likes Zayn because he’s refreshing. He always has a new way of seeing things; Harry thinks he’d give good advice. He taps his fingers on the railing of the balcony and leans his arms forward. The sun is coming up, he can tell by the color of the sky, but it’s not yet over the mountains. He clutches his camera in his hand, adjusts the strap on his wrist. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry says. 

“Will I be able to answer it before the sun comes up?” Zayn wonders. 

Harry pauses. “Maybe. Probably. Actually, I’m not sure if you’re going to be able to answer it at all, but I figure it’s worth it to hear someone else’s opinion.” 

“Louis, yeah?” 

Zayn knows. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “What gave it away?”

“Other than the fact that I walked in on you guys in the same bed this morning, I think it’s just something you learn to sense. I mean, it’s not really how much you touch each other, although that’s kind of a bit of a giveaway, I think it’s just the connection you have? I dunno, mate. I’ve not talked about it to Liam and Niall, though. It’s just my own thoughts.”

Harry sighs. “I don’t mind you guys knowing.” He turns on his camera and takes a few shots of the lake in the dim lighting of the sky. The mountains are about to go up in flames. 

“What’s the issue, then?” 

“I don’t know how to like, pinpoint it, y’know? Louis is like—I don’t even know what he’s like. He’s not a metaphor. He’s a lot of things, but I think one of the things he isn’t is trusting? He won’t let me in.” Zayn raises his eyebrows in a manner that only Zayn can manage to be quiet, subtle, not intrusive. “Okay, so not really that he won’t let me in. I’m not the best at explaining, but when it comes to talking about how much I like him, he always makes it about something else, or kind of dilutes my words to make them seem lesser?

“I told him straight up last night how much I like him, and he just told me that I was kidding myself. I don’t even know what that means.”

Harry snaps a few more photos, the dark sky likening pink towards the tips of the mountains, the entirety of Queenstown adopting a glow that Harry’s little point-and-shoot doesn’t do justice. The town is framed by mountains and protected by an endless lake. It’s an enriching kind of beauty. Harry can’t compare it to anywhere else. 

“I’m sorry for dumping this on you. I’m not sure there was even a question in all that mess.”

Zayn takes his time in his response, his fingers running over the necklace he has on, eyes blinking slowly, watching the sky rather than Harry. The lake looks placid from here, large and undisturbed at such an early hour. Megs talked to them about hiking again last night. He wants to see the water closer, watch reflections dance and rocks soar. “I think there was a few questions in there, but I don’t really know if they’re for me to answer.” 

Harry sighs again, take a picture of his hand, then Zayn’s, and the lake again. Orange is beginning to surround them. The complimentary colors are basking the mountains in contrast, and Harry thinks back to the sunset from the top of the lift they saw the first night of skiing at Cardrona. He wishes he took more pictures. The sky is too beautiful to let escape. The sun rises and sets every day, and yet, he’s only watched it a handful of times. 

In Fiji, they hiked to the top of the mountain and spent ten minutes in silence as the wind blew the tall grass and the sun colored the sea bay and the islands salmon and sunshine yellow. His guide, Heather, said that she watches the sunrise every morning and spends ten minutes in silence. Harry needs to stop comparing Fiji to New Zealand. 

“You’re probably right,” Harry mutters. “You seem like the kind of guy who’s always right.”

Zayn chuckles softly. It seems to fit the scene unfolding around them. All of the colors are soft. The sun has yet to breach the peaks of the mountains. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But about this, yeah. I’m probably right.”

Harry snorts. 

“I can’t tell you what he’s feeling. You’re gonna have to talk to him.”

“I know,” Harry admits. “And I try to, but I can never bring myself to sound so serious because I’ve known him for six days. Is it such a crime to like someone?” 

“Of course not. Love is irrational, Harry.”

Harry wants to splutter on the word love, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he says, “How do you know so much?” 

“I observe.” 

“So you’re telling me that you’ve never been in love?” Harry asks. “No way.” 

“I might have thought I was. I don’t know, mate. Like I said, things like these don’t make sense. Exactly why neither you nor I can do a very good job of explaining it.”

Harry laugh again, a little self-deprecatingly. “I dunno, Z. You seem to be doing a pretty good job.”

Zayn just smiles softly, in a meaningful way. He turns back to the sky. “Just watch this. Worry about everything else later. Besides, I’m sure Louis will want to see some pictures.”

The world keeps spinning, and in a shattering of the surface, the mountains are covered in the sky’s pure gold. 

* * *

By the time the sun has come up and Zayn is shivering, the day is already sluggish through its start. Harry goes back to his room finding Louis asleep, curled around Harry’s pillow and looking something exquisite. His hair is still a little pushed off his forehead from when Harry had moved it to kiss the skin there, his mouth is barely open, and the blanket is stopped at his waist, exposing a torso bathed in the same gold that covered the mountains just moments ago. Harry takes a moment to just admire him, without the fear that he shouldn’t be, or that Louis will tease him about it. 

He takes a deep breath, checking his watch and seeing that they have about twenty minutes until they should actually be awake. Walking quietly, he sits back down on the edge of the bed and runs a gentle hand down Louis’ arm. It takes time for him to stir, but after goosebumps rise on his bicep when Harry brings his nails to the softest part of his skin just so lightly, his eyes blink back awake, eyelashes thick and dark against his cheeks in the room that’s already brightening as the sun raises its stampede against the sky. 

“S’up already?” Louis mutters. “Stupid sun interrupting my sleep.”

Harry could come up with a million retorts to that, but he bites his tongue, smooths his hand across Louis’ cheek. “We have to be awake in twenty minutes anyway. Besides, _somebody_ told me he wants to see some pictures of the so-called stupid sunrise.”

“Right,” Louis mutters, fisting the fabric of Harry’s pants in his hands and tugging him onto the bed feebly. He curls around Harry’s waist, still laying down, propping his head on Harry’s thigh. “Show me, then?” 

Harry presses his camera to life with an index finger and jumpy hands, waiting for it to load, and the photo that appears first is the selfie that he made Zayn take with him. Zayn is brooding and not smiling, and Harry has an arm around his shoulders and is grinning like an idiot. Naturally. 

“You’re silly,” Louis tells him. 

“I know. But the more selfies per trip the better. Especially with pretty mountains in the background.”

Louis frowns. “I’m fairly certain we’ve only selfied once on this trip, on the first night.”

“Are you propositioning me?” Harry asks. 

“Maybe.” He’s coy. Harry wants him. 

“You’re going to have to sit up if you want it that bad.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he grips Harry’s thigh with burning gold hands and hauls himself up, leaving pins and needles reminding Harry of how infatuated he is. He presses their cheeks together, and Harry quickly turns the camera around snapping a few stupid, probably blurry pictures of the two of them, but quickly returns to the ones of the sunrise. 

As Harry flicks through them, he can feel Louis’ eyes flit from his thumb changing them, to the screen, to the profile of his face. 

“You regret not coming to watch it?” Harry asks, voice soft to match their breathing and the lighting and the feeling of their pajama pants brushing against each other. 

“Honestly?” Louis murmurs, “A little bit, but like. I get to see it now, with you, and I got more sleep, so it can’t be all bad, right?”

Harry supposes he’s got a point. Once his photos cycle back to the beginning ones from Fiji, he turns it off and sets it on the table, taking Louis hand to draw shapes between his knuckles. He traces figure eights and thinks infinite sunrises and infinite stars, but is soon drawn to the infinite things he doesn’t know about Louis, so he asks, “What’s your favorite _sound_?” 

Louis blinks at him, actions slowed, hand slack in Harry’s grip. “Odd question choice, love.”

“It was the first thing I thought of,” Harry responds, trying to back up his assured randomness. 

“Still odd.” Louis pauses carefully, shifting his wrist in Harry’s hand to tangle their fingers, his other hand tapping a pattern on his own thigh in thought. “Can I do more than one?” 

Harry smiles brightly, not as soft and sleepy as Louis is with the early morning still causing him to adjust. “Sure. I just want to know things about you.”

“And you choose my favorite sound?” 

Harry pouts. “Just answer, please?” 

“Aw, baby is sad,” Louis murmurs, teasing. He brushes his lips against Harry’s cheek and does as he’s told anyway. “So I have three, yeah? First, the sound of skis in powder, like when it’s so soft and deep that it barely makes a noise but when you come to a stop it makes just the slightest fluffy kinda noise. Two, the sound when you just fucking nail a football as hard as you can. And then finally, this—” Louis ducks his head to fit against Harry’s neck and press a smacking kiss there. 

“Come here, I wanna kiss you proper,” Harry says, goosebumps striking back, leaving him shivering with Louis’ warmth. 

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Morning breath.”

“I have it too. I don’t care.”

Louis raises a slightly affronted eyebrow. “And what if _I_ care?” 

Harry sighs. “Then I would say that you were a weenie and probably kiss you anyway.”

Louis shrugs. “Okay,” he mutters, and he kisses Harry. 

* * * 

Some time after lunch, Harry and Louis are on the lift above the Cardrona park, meeting the boys and Marc at the top, and Harry is currently fumbling desperately with his gloves. 

Louis sighs and snatches it out of his bare hand. “Give me that!” In faux-exasperation, he slaps Harry’s arm with it, waiting for him to pull out his iPhone in order to complete the rest of their selfie destiny. They knock helmets while Harry snaps pictures, some with their gators and goggles on, some off, some smiling, some with their tongues out. Harry thinks of his door covered in pictures at home and how he’s probably going to need another door after all of the photos he’s taken on these trips. 

“Okay, babe,” Louis announces when they’re finished, “now that we’ve finished taking selfies, do you know what we must do before we get to the top?” 

“I’m afraid I’m living in the dark, Lou. What’re we doing?” 

“We’re going to play my favorite game, yeah?” He adjusts his goggles, pulls his gator down his face, and whispers, “Penis.” 

“I thought Uno was your favorite,” Harry argues, teasing. He lowers his voice to just above Louis’, “Penis.”

Louis clears his throat. “Penis.”

“…Penis.”

“Penis.” 

“Penis!”

“Penis!” 

“Penis!” 

“Motherfucking penis!” 

Someone on the chair below flips them off, another one calls penis right back, and Harry collapses in fits of laughter, not able to raise his voice louder from his breathlessness. “You win, you win,” Harry says. “Nice touch on that last one though.”

“Why thank you, sir. Good game.” He holds out his gloved hand to shake, and Harry can’t stop laughing with their palms pressed together. 

“You’re my favorite!” Louis calls, a little winded from yelling about phallic things at the top of his lungs. He lets his chest heave before looking at Harry and raising the goggles off his head. “I wish I could kiss you proper with these dumb helmets on,” he mutters, “but this will have to do.” He pushes Harry’s gator down as well and kisses the top of his nose and leaves a lingering one to his lips, their helmets clanging at the angle awful. 

Harry feels higher up than the lift can take them. 

* * * 

“I wish there was a fireplace here,” Louis murmurs later that evening, when they’re sitting on the couches before dinner. Niall is lamely looking through the movie collection; Harry’s pressed inconspicuously to Louis’ side. 

“Me as well,” Zayn agrees. “It’s always nice to make a fire after a day on the mountain. Adds to the whole scene, y’know?”

“Well,” Harry starts, a smirk curling over his lips and Louis’ fingers pressing into his shoulder, “I suppose this means that we’ll have to make our own fire. With our hearts.”

There’s a collective groan throughout the room, and Louis slaps Harry upside the head. “You loser.” 

Harry’s hushed in his response, private and warm, “Maybe, but you love it. I’m your favorite.”

Harry’s well aware of how much he’s making Louis regret saying those words. This is the fourth time he’s brought it up. In the past hour. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis mutters, but he’s smiling. It feels like butterflies are playing a game of tag in Harry’s stomach, and in their wake are corkscrews of a flame’s warmth. 

* * * 

Louis’s kissing with his lips on fire, but instead of leaving him charred he’s melted into red-hot silver. His hips buck up against Louis’, his hands touching skin made of gold leaf. He has to pull back to get rid of the grin tugging his lips up, moves his mouth to Louis’ ear. 

“How’s this for a fire, yeah?” 

Louis groans, mostly out of exasperation, but maybe because Harry bites down on his collarbone. “Harry, you’re the absolute worst.”

“No,” Harry sings, “I’m the best. You said it yourself. I might be the worst, but I’m your worst favorite.” 

“You’re going to hold that against me forever, aren’t you?” Louis sighs, pulling Harry down for another kiss. 

Harry grins against his lips, walks his fingers up Louis’ bicep. Forever, forever, forever. “Absolutely.” Louis sighs again, and Harry retreats back to where he whispered first, right at the shell of his ear. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re my favorite as well.”

“I’ll take it,” Louis says, laughing a bit. “Quite the moral support.”

“I try my best.” 

Louis’ hands are walking like they’re on a path with no map; they’re nomads, wandering wherever they please, from rubbing over Harry’s nipples and swimming in the pools that form from the dips of Harry’s collarbones to skirting over the soft spot right beneath his hip, or the spot where his waist juts out just a little. Harry’s sweatpants feel too thick and the air is heady as Louis spells intoxicating into his lightly tanned stomach with fingers that feel more like an antidote than a poison. He sucks hard on Harry’s pec, leaving their bodies completely aligned and his hands pressing, pressing. 

He takes a heavy breath through his nose, and the air leaving tickles Harry’s skin, leaving him with the goosebumps that can’t seem to go twenty seconds without when Louis is near him. He drives his hips down once, and Harry’s head arches back into the pillows, exposing his neck, fingers twisting in the sheets and then grasping onto Louis’ arse. 

“I know the other night I said I wasn’t going to come in my pants, but you’re quite fun to grind with, H.” His breath is hot in Harry’s ear. Harry can’t breathe. 

“Thanks,” he manages, “I try.” 

Louis chuckles against him, wracking their bodies ever so lightly and sucking right behind his ear, canting his hips down and letting their cocks rub together between their trousers, just barely enough but so good that it’s tantalizing, it’s keeping them going without taking off anymore layers. 

Harry spreads his legs a bit more, and Louis chuckles down at him a little, looking at him with thick eyelashes and dark pupils, glassy and golden. He frees one of his hands to brush the hair out of Harry’s face, thumb skittish but gentle across Harry’s forehead. He kisses with more tenderness than lust, in the moment after that before pulling away. Harry doesn’t know what all of these feelings are. He pulls Louis closer to him, keeps bucking up because there is so much he needs. 

“I wish you could be louder, love,” Louis murmurs to him. 

“Movie’s quite loud tonight,” Harry chokes out. His skin is on fire. 

“Smart boy,” Louis coos. 

Harry shoves him and then pulls him back in a flash. “Bite me.” 

Louis’ laughing at him again, rubbing their bodies together, and then he’s sinking his teeth right into the skin underneath Harry’s collarbone, pushing into his bicep with his thumb. Harry can’t exactly fight the groan that comes out of him. 

* * *

It takes a little bit of post-coital bliss and two cups of tea for either of them to start speaking up again. As soon as Harry’s done fixing the cuppas, Louis demands that he come back to bed, and he draws shapes around Harry’s belly button and thumbs patterns into his hipbones. He’s never felt like more of a work of art. Beauty makes beauty. 

“Can you tell me about your family?” Harry asks. 

Watching Louis’ smile is electric. “What do you want to know?” 

“Everything,” Harry murmurs. “Anything.” Louis’ fingers on his skin feel warmer than the blankets coming up to their waists, and he feels the heavy exhale of his breath on his neck. 

“Well, I grew up with quite a full house, y’know? Four half-sisters and a lot of dolls.” He chuckles. “It was work. It’s still work, but they’re so lovely. It’s kind of hard to think about leaving my mum next year. She works so hard even with me there to help. I mean, I know that they’re getting older—but, whatever. I don’t want to get into that. She’ll be fine. She’s a trooper.”

“What about her, though? And your dad?” 

And watching it fall is devastating. 

He heaves a sigh. “My parents are a bit fucked, yeah?” His laugh, for once, is not beautifully happy. Instead, he’s ruinous. Harry doesn’t like to see his pain. “Like, my biological father left, completely fucked off, when I was really young, and my mum got remarried a few years after that, so that’s where my sisters came from, but now it’s all gone a bit to shit again. Like, they’re always fighting and yelling at each other. I know what’s coming, and I know I can take it, right? But my youngest sisters, the twins, are five, and like—I don’t want to them to grow up with that. Not when I’m barely going to be there to help.”

He sighs again. “Sorry for dumping that on you. Fuck love, right?” 

Harry’s chest contracts. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid to talk to me, okay? I like listening, even if I can’t help. I know that it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

Louis is silent for a moment; his fingers have stilled on Harry’s torso. “What about you, then?”

“What about me?” 

“Your family. I’m sure your stories are a bit less depressing than mine.”

Louis’ anything but depressing, is the thing. He said fuck love, but the amount of love etched into the corners of his eyes and in the bow of his lips as he smiled was anything but dismissal. He’s so full of love that he can’t see. Harry doesn’t know how to control the spotlight. 

“Well, unlike you, my house is not nearly as full. It’s just gonna be my mum and I this year, actually. My sister Gemma is off to uni in the fall, same as you. Although, my mum's boyfriend Robin is around a lot recently, so that’s nice. Won’t be as lonely. I’d reckon that he might propose soon, actually.”

“Your dad?” Louis asks. He’s hesitant, and Harry doesn’t blame him. 

“Oh, yeah. My parents were divorced when I was seven, so that’s why I said the thing about having someone to talk to, because I really didn’t when I needed someone.”

“Harry…” Louis murmurs. 

“Hey, it was a long time ago. I was really young. Most kids that age don’t understand it. I’m glad I didn’t have anyone relate to. No one should deal with that shit.” 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” 

Harry kisses his neck. “Just honest.”

•••••••••••••

_Day 6_

Their second day at the Remarkables leads to a spectacular day of fucking around in the park. Harry falls on his back at least twice. Liam lands on him once, definitely, but it’s the first day that they actually manage to spend the entirety together. Louis and Harry to manage to stray once, even they want to. They kind of flirt shamelessly on the chairlift, though, and Zayn rolls his eyes from behind his sunglasses and their pinkies brush when they take off their gloves because it’s particularly warm today.

Louis constantly lifts his aviators off his face because of the fear of a sunglasses tan looming, so Harry forces him to swap on their third run. 

“Give me those,” Harry says. 

“Why?” Louis says, folding them and unfolding them in his lap, squinting against the bright sun. 

“Because if you switch them now you won’t get that tanline, right? Instead of aviators you’ll have my wayfarers on and it’ll, like, confuse the sun, right?” 

“Harry, love,” Louis murmurs. “That makes absolutely no fucking sense, but if you wanted to wear my sunglasses, you just had to ask.”

He hands them over and plucks Harry’s off his face, dawning them with a smirk and raise of his eyebrows.

Lunch is an event. It’s mostly horrible puns from Harry’s end of the table, but overall, a mass of terrible and often vulgar jokes from all of them. Harry’s almost sure that Megs is going to chafe her beautiful skin if she keeps facepalming like she does. Clearly male humor is getting to her head. High testosterone levels can perhaps do that to a person. 

The rest of the afternoon leaves Harry in a haze. Louis only asks what’s wrong once, and either he’s smart enough not to ask again or ignorant enough to think “it’s nothing” means it’s really nothing. It is Day 6 in Queenstown. It is Day 6 and Harry is beginning to go a bit mad. He thinks about Zayn. Fiji is sneaking up on him, and even though it doesn’t feel like it just yet, the tablecloth is about to be pulled from the china. Louis is not going to drift—he’s going to be yanked. Harry has never has any teeth pulled but he gets the feeling that it’s going to feel something like whatever’s looming on him. 

He blames fatigue for his sluggishness during the final hours of their ski day, and he thinks tonight might be when he tells Louis that he’s going to disappear faster than a magician would want. Harry doesn’t want to leave. He never wants to leave, and he hates himself for the spindle of attachment that always spools out of him whenever he arrives anywhere. Harry latched onto sandy beaches and soaring mountains and now he’s latched onto something that he’s not even sure is holding on back. 

There are so many things unfolding around him and yet he can’t even manage to hang on to one. 

* * * 

Harry retreats to their room as soon as they arrive home, napping before dinner and opting out of whatever horror moving they’re watching this time. He barely eats dinner, going back to his confines and laying in his hot bed in the dark, wishing for sleep but knowing that it won’t come until the words drip from his lips like dew from petals. 

Louis comes in before the movie’s over. He’s smart enough not to turn on the lights. Harry can hear it. He can hear the soft pad of Louis’ socks against the wooden floor and Niall’s laugh that sounds years away through thin walls and a closed door. 

He comes into Harry’s bed quietly, not disturbing the sheets, Harry in a curled up position. He manages to come under the covers, too tentative, too faltering. He lets his palm stroke over Harry’s forehead. Harry hopes he can’t feel the worry that’s been buried there since half past noon. “Are you okay?” Louis asks. 

He’s been asking with his eyes all day, and Harry loves and hates and loves that they can read each other that way. 

Harry’s not so sure that he has an answer. He tries, with a hand folding over Louis’ soft hip and a breath that disturbs the hairs fallen into his eyes. “I’m tired. I’m thinking too much. They tend to go together.” 

Louis makes a hum, not quite noncommittal but sounding like he’s as unsure of how to speak as Harry. “I’m going to kiss you, okay?” he asks. Harry manages a nod. There’s at least this. “And then I’m going to lay down and you’re going to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s strange not to see you punning.” Harry accomplishes half a smile before Louis’ lips meet his in a kiss that’s too hot for the mood, for the heated blanket that’s on a setting too high. For some reason the opposite of it all feels just like what he needs. 

It takes five minutes of silence and darkness and Louis’ fingers being windshield wipers on his skin despite the cloudless day. 

“I’m going to back Fiji for another ten days after this,” Harry whispers to Louis’ shoulder. His skin is hot against Harry’s cool lips. It feels too much like a confession. It should be good news, but Harry feels like he’s standing at the funeral for his own heart. It would have come up sooner or later. Harry doesn't want this to be a secret. 

It takes Louis a moment to respond. “Look at you, helping the people again. Here I am thinking that I was doing something cool by going to New Zealand in the first place.” If it were daytime, he knows that Louis would’ve looked him in the eye and tried to smile failingly. But it’s dark in their little room, and the heated pads on the bed are burning Harry’s bare chest. This should be good. 

“You know how much I like you, Louis. I like you so much.” 

“And you know I always have the same response to that. This has been a week of our lives, Harry. You’re amazing, but I can’t—seven days can’t make up for a whole lifetime.” 

“Would me going straight back to England make it different?”

He knows that Louis has two weeks home before he moves into his dorm at Manchester. So, maybe, he thinks. Maybe. 

“Probably not,” Louis says. “It doesn’t mean thinking about it is easy.” 

“Why don’t you trust this? Us, or whatever we are.” 

“I don’t really trust much at all,” Louis sighs. “I’d take a free fall over a beating heart. You know that.” 

You know that. 

They go skydiving tomorrow, and Harry won’t see Louis until the afternoon, after he’s jumped 12,000 feet into uncertainty with a stranger on his back. 

•••••••••••••

_Day 7_

Harry’s not even the one jumping out of a plane and his heartbeat is wracking his chest. Louis, on the other hand, is completely at ease, sprawled out on Harry’s bed and basking in the sunlight coming in from the window, eyes closed and breathing steady. Harry’s contemplating what to wear, but in the end just pulls on jeans and a jumper, staring at Louis who can assuredly feel his troubled gaze.

Louis cracks his eyes open, murmurs, “What?” 

Harry sighs and smooths the fabric of his knit sweater, coming to sit next to Louis with fumbling feet, almost falling right on top of him. “Just…” he exhales through his nose, “You’ll be careful, right?”

“I’d reckon it’s not so much up to me, love,” Louis responds. “I’m just strapped onto a dude.”

“Louis,” Harry says patronizingly. 

“Harry,” Louis mimics. Harry frowns, unable to stop his own, self-inflicted anxiety. Louis grabs his hand. “I’ll try, yeah?”

“Good. I’m just a worry wart. Sorry.”

Louis shakes his head a little, but sits up against the headboard to look Harry in the eyes. “You like me too much.”

Harry’s never heard a truer statement. “I just care, arsehole.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’ll be safe.” 

“Good,” Harry growls, and he kisses him until there’s a knock on their door telling them that it’s time to go. 

* * * 

Harry’s morning spent in panic at the Internet café in Queenstown is blessedly ended when Marc calls them to the Fergburger, and there’s a gaggle of boys approaching them from across the street, Niall, Liam, and Louis jumping all over each other, using shoulders for leverage as they speed over the crosswalk, Megan trailing behind with a fond smile on her face. Their grins are invincible, and immediate relief washes over Harry’s body. 

Sure, he knew it was safe—he _knows_ skydiving is safe, but still, right? He’s allowed to be nervous when he was aware that his friends were going to be jumping out of a small plane moving at a fast speed into 12,000 feet of doom. Well, perhaps not doom, but the thought is still slightly terrifying, especially when the brochure bragged about _200 km/p hour top speed_! 

Louis runs to Harry with heavy hands and flushed cheeks, tackling him in a hug and yelling potentially too loud for the crowded line in front of the restaurant, “That was fucking _sick_!”

“You’ll tell us over lunch?” Zayn says. 

Louis’ hand curls around the back of Harry’s neck and he takes a big breath. His exhilaration is astonishing. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’ll talk your ears off once I can stuff my face at the same time. I’m so hungry.” 

Fergburger is a magical restaurant, is the thing. It’s basically a hole in the wall on the main drag of Queenstown, but there’s a mass of people waiting around it at high noon just to get their fix. There’s a menu of creatively-named and delicious burgers, and they’re ginormous, effectively feeding five teenage boys and their guides. After about fifteen minutes or so of waiting on a bench across the street, Marc comes hurdling toward them with a bag the size of his torso, filled to the brim with burgers and fries. It’s intense. 

Louis tries his best to not be disgusting while he details his exhilarating experience of jumping out of a plane, Harry can tell. It doesn’t really work, seeing as he’s eating a burger as big as his face. Niall and Liam chime in sometimes, but Louis is good with the dramatization, using bold hand movements that include waving fries around aggressively and shaking his burger to the point that ketchup just barely misses his shoe as opposed to the pavement. 

“So, a Brazilian dude who’s jumped out of a plane _10,000_ times is strapped to my back, right?”

“My guy was Irish!” Niall interjects. “We had a soul bond, I swear.”

Louis looks torn between narrowing his eyes at him and kissing his little blessed forehead, but he settles for just carrying on talking. “The plane ride itself wasn’t so bad. We were all in each other’s crotches though, ‘cause like, we’re on the floor of a tiny little plane and there is no breathing room, let me tell you. It kind of hyped me up, then. Like you can’t really see so well outside, and you feel yourself spiralling up, and all the sudden the dude on my back was like, ‘Your turn!’ and I’m like—‘what?’

“Apparently,” Louis begins again, slowly, “we had reached 12,000 feet and I was the lucky chap who got to jump out of the bloody plane first.”

Harry has to clap his free hand over his mouth he laughs so suddenly, looking at Louis like the brilliance he is and falling in love with his energy. 

“So we kind of shuffle over arse-to-crotch to what looks like a damn garage for fuck’s sake, and he just lifts it up and there’s wind and then he does a thing and I’m just dangling, right? Out of the fucking plane! And he goes, ‘Ready?’ and I’m like, ‘No?’ so naturally, he jumps and falls wonderfully to our not-death.”

“Honestly, though,” he concludes. “It was fucking rad, yeah?”

“Eloquent ending,” Zayn mutters. 

“Shove your burger up your arse, Malik.”

Zayn shrugs, smirking. 

Harry just eats his fries and hopes Louis’ pretty, giddy smile doesn’t fade for the rest of the day.

* * * 

The rest of their day leaves them in Queenstown, where they walk a few blocks to a place on the edge of town, right where the mountains start to gaze down upon them. They split up into groups of two for a gondola ride, and somehow Louis and Harry hurry enough so that it’s just the two of them and Zayn on their way up. Louis holds Harry’s hand and makes sorry eyes at Zayn as they both hold their breath on the steep incline up. The view is much more satisfying than looking at the rocky cliffs beneath them, anyway. 

Once at the top, their hands find a way apart, preparing for the little bit of the hike they have to do up a lot of steps, only to be met with yet another chairlift only with green grass underneath it, along with the most intense luging course Harry has ever seen in his sixteen and a half years. (It’s also the only luging course Harry has ever seen—it’s not very intense.) 

“We can race, yeah?” is the first thing that comes out of Louis’ mouth. 

Marc snorts pompously. “Yeah, good luck beating me, kid.” And he runs straight to the line for the lift. Marc and Louis are very much alike. 

Niall sprints to catch up with him, and Harry and Louis follow, getting a lift together that’s quite stiff and hard on their bums, wooden and a little rickety. But the day itself is golden. There are a few passing clouds, but their sunglasses stay perched on their noses and sunlight puts shiny streaks in their hair, like the sky is saying it’s time to be beautiful; it’s time to be warm; it’s time to be together. 

At the top, they file into the line, are glamorously stamped with a ‘LUGE!’ print in ink on their hands, and immediately get into their toboggans, red and fierce as hell. The seven of them manage to line up on the course, going for a giant race straight away. Apparently, “fast but not fast enough” should be Harry’s new motto, because immediately, he lags. He’s sharp on his turns and even catches Liam’s tail for like, two seconds at one point, but. 

Here he is, trying not to take out any children and miserably losing the race. 

Louis quite literally shakes his arse in everyone’s face as a strange breed of victory, pumping his fist and basking in his “never-ending glory”. 

Well. 

On the lift, he grabs Harry’s hand and smacks his cheek with a big ol’ kiss. “Crushed ‘em, H!”

“Good job, Lou,” Harry says. 

“Oh, poor baby. Am I too fast for you?” 

“A bit,” Harry mutters. 

“Sorry, love. Might just have to leave you in the dust.” 

Something funny twists in Harry’s stomach, but he just shoves Louis’ side instead. “You’ll see. I have a technique.”

Louis looks at him, head cocked and expression unreadable behind his aviators. “I guess I will then.” 

Harry continues losing, Louis continues winning. It’s one big gloat/sulk fest. By the time Megs has declared it to be their last go, the brilliant idea has only just occurred to Louis. 

“H,” he starts, running his nails along the rough fabric of Harry’s jeans, “what if…we ride a luge _together_.”

“Is that allowed?” Harry asks. 

“Have you not seen all the girls with their mums and dads?”

Harry pouts. “Of course I have. But they’re little and we’re not.”

“Harold, it’s the twenty-first century. They can’t discriminate for size. Although I happen to know you’re packing.”

Harry flicks him with a brush of a hand, and when everyone at the top pairs up for racing in teams, Louis whispers to him, “Let me steer, yeah, love? Just hold on.” 

And they fucking smash it. 

* * * 

The day Zayn and Harry have been waiting for has finally arrived. Megan is taking them on a hike. They leave the house with Louis, Niall, Liam, and Marc on the couch eating Tim Tams by the box (an Australian cookie delicacy that has ruined Harry’s diet whilst here), probably farting and watching a stupid movie. Harry’s wearing one of Louis’ sweaters and his favorite orange trainers when he steps out the door into the cool evening air, and Zayn and Megan are solemn by his side. 

They talk a little bit in the beginning, about their respective homes and how they’re going to be returning to them soon, but eventually they fall silent to nature. Harry takes pictures of their path behind the houses, mostly dirt and trees, watching as trunks can stand tremendous even by a lake wider than they ever could grow and mountains higher than they can soar. Harry doesn’t feel tremendous. 

_(i can’t stand on a mountain and feel tremendous_

_i’m aware that my stature measures less than six feet and that an aspen tree can be closer to touching the clouds than i ever will be_

_i hide what might be brilliance_

_you can stand on a mountain and become a part of it_

_you’ll look at an aspen tree and think of ways to scale it_

_i’ve seen more of you than i’ve ever seen of myself)_

The lake keeps him small, but sometimes size can be relative. So he takes pictures of the water and then gives Megs his camera, climbing onto the rocks with Zayn and sitting, silent and in touch with whatever’s blooming inside of him, whether there are flowers in his ribcage or smoke still sitting in his lungs from when he tried a cigarette when he was thirteen. There are no waves or crashing shores to put him into rhythm like Fiji did, so he lets the rustle of the trees and Zayn’s quiet exhales keep him in now.

* * * 

“Will you tell me a little more about skydiving?” Harry asks, and he’s probably still full from lunch, let alone dinner, so they’re warm and cuddled up in their room, enjoying each other’s company rather than Stepbrothers that is assuredly Niall’s 54th time seeing it. 

“Was my story at lunch not in enough detail for you, babe?” Louis teases, nosing at Harry’s collarbones, his hair tickling Harry’s jaw and making him squirm. 

“It’s not that,” Harry says, thinking of ways to put this nicer. “I just feel like you talked all buildup, y’know? What was it like when you were actually, properly falling? Or when he pulled the chute? Or landing? Or even straight after?”

“Ugh, you needy human,” Louis grumbles. 

Harry shoves him. “Fine, I won’t express any interest toward you ever again.”

Louis snorts and runs his palm right along the waistband of Harry’s sweats. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Harry huffs. He’s right. “You’re right. But you should still answer my questions.”

“Fine,” Louis murmurs. “Because it’s you.”

Harry blushes bright pink, trying to pull Louis closer to him so he won’t see Harry’s embarrassing flush and dimple that pops out on its own accord. He manages, “Well don’t pretend you don’t like to talk just as much as I like to listen."

“I’m no liar,” Louis murmurs, and he launches into Skydiving: Part II, an epic narrative that focuses heavily on screaming, Lake Wakatipu, not being able to breathe, and Louis’ perfect landing skills, most of which, if he’s being honest, Harry expected. It’s nice to hear him get so enthusiastic again, energetic even as he strokes Harry’s hair and can’t bounce off the walls if he’s bound to the bed. He probably gets breathless once or twice, with how fast he’s talking or how vivid a memory is. 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s in, but he’s in deep. 

“I kind of wish you’d splurged and got it taped by the dude who jumps with you. I just want to see the lake like that.” 

“‘Course you do,” Louis murmurs fondly, “after your little hike today.”

“Excuse me, it was a hike of the ages, it took more than an hour.”

“But I would not waste 200 NZ dollars on a video I would only watch back once if there’re pictures just as good—if not better—on Google.”

“Well. You’ve got a point. I suppose it’s more about sentiment when it comes to stuff like that.”

“Harry, darling,” (Harry blushes again, even if Louis does sound a bit condescending (although, when does he not?)) “I thought you would’ve known by now. I always have a point.”

Right. He’s right again. 

Harry just rolls his eyes because his retorts are avoiding him. Louis snickers, leaning over to drop kisses all over Harry’s cheeks and forehead. Harry squirms, flushing immediately, and Louis bites him gently on the side of his neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses there just to see how Harry reacts. He makes a noise high in the back of his throat, quiet and careful, but needy—wanting. Louis cocks his head at him. 

“Can I suck you off?” Harry asks. 

Louis chokes, splutters. “I, um—you don’t really have to ask, love. Like, by all means.” 

For once he’s at a loss for words. Harry feels slightly powerful. For Louis’ sake he says nothing to tease him, just rubs the skin along Louis’ side, his torso bare and beautiful, golden from summer and smooth like honey tea. Harry kisses down his chest, wanting to love him without telling him, because that’s not the right word and there’s not enough time and this isn’t what Louis wants to hear. Louis wants to feel good. 

So Harry makes him feel good. He rearranges himself a bit, straddling one of Louis’ calves, pressing him up against the headboard so he can look down where Harry might’ve found a spot between his legs. 

“Y’done this before?” Louis asks him, hands going back to Harry’s hair by instinct, rubbing and petting soothingly. 

Harry preens before chuckling awkwardly. “Once or twice.” 

Louis hums and closes his eyes, still smoothing Harry’s hair, letting his trackies and briefs be pulled to his thighs. Harry immediately latches onto the skin over his hipbone, biting down and sucking a bruise where no one will see it, maybe hoping a little that it’ll be there when they leave New Zealand but mostly because his hipbones are wonderful. 

He gets to Louis’ cock, almost fully hard now, and sucks the head into his mouth, careful at first, slow, because he may have sucked a few dicks in his day but it’s still been a while. He laps at the side, waiting for Louis to look at him. When his blue eyes snap open and hands tighten in his hair, he bobs his head a bit, feeling the gentle presence of Louis’ touch, the heaviness of Louis’ cock on his tongue. He takes a heavy breath through his nose. 

Harry ruts against Louis’ leg because he can’t really take it anymore, and he watches the way Louis’ stomach muscles clench, the way his eyes flutter back shut. He runs his tongue over the slit and shudders when Louis groans and tugs on his hair involuntarily. Harry moans around Louis’ cock, listening to him spit out, “Fuck,” under his breath, still managing to stay quiet when on the brink of an orgasm. 

Louis scratches a bit at the back of his neck and sends a shudder running through him. He feels Louis’ things begin to shudder underneath him. “I’m gonna come, babe,” Louis says, and Harry just sucks him through it, swallows when he shoots into his mouth, ruts desperately against his calf when he pulls off because he’s ridiculously turned on and ridiculously infatuated and ridiculously young and horny. He comes in his briefs, but. 

What can be done. 

“Coming in the pants: Harry 2, Louis 1.” 

Harry can barely manage to snort, just peels off his sweatpants and briefs and chucks them on the floor, crawling under the duvet beside Louis because he can’t be bothered. He presses into Louis’ side. 

“You’re outrageously beautiful,” Harry tells him. He has to tell him. Harry’s never been too good at keeping his mouth shut. 

“You’re so cheesy, babe,” Louis snorts. 

“I’m also serious, it’s part of the package. Corny _and_ honest.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis says before kissing across Harry’s shoulder blades, “so are you, okay?”

Harry is a volcano that’s just erupted, and that has nothing to do with the fact that Louis just made him come. 

•••••••••••••

_Day 8_

The final full day in New Zealand feels like they’re all pretending. Harry feels like he’s just kidding, because they’re all leaving tomorrow and it’s not supposed to feel like it isn’t an end. It’s supposed to feel like the world is ending, like they’re never going to see each other, and yet. And yet. 

They ski the first half of the day and have lunch at a café in Queenstown, and Harry itches his way through the morning. He’s practically glued to Louis’ side but somehow this trip has taught him that not everything is permanent. 

He is not ready to be ripped apart. 

Perhaps everyone else just can’t feel it. 

* * * 

Louis can feel it. Maybe it’s their weird connection that Liam still tends to rave about. But when they’re packing, picking up their strewn clothes and stuffing them into bags that are too small, Louis sits him down, pulls him by the wrist until they flop down onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling and holding hands. Harry feels a million comings of summer butterflies in his stomach, and for some reason he can’t help thinking that everything is a last one. 

“What’s up?” Louis asks. It’s all he needs to. 

Harry sighs and scrubs a hand across his face with his free hand. His other one sits heavily in Louis’ grip, and it feels like a root keeping him grounded to something that’s not going to be there in the morning. His stomach keeps sinking and sinking into the bottom of fucking Lake Wakatipu. “I don’t know.”

Louis nudges him. His voice is soft. “You do.”

Harry sighs again, like all he can put out is exhales and too much air. “Then I don’t know how to say it.” He pauses. “We’re leaving.” 

Harry expects a snort or some kind of sarcastic retort like, ‘Really, genius?’ But for some reason, because Louis can feel it, he doesn’t get one. 

“We’re leaving,” he echoes instead. 

“We’re leaving and I’m going back to Fiji, and I don’t like not knowing. I don’t know when I’m going to see any of you again. It just scares me because we’ve all bonded a lot.”

Harry keeps it about the group. It is about the group, but there’s more than that. They are always going to be more than that, and it’s been that way since the beginning. 

“We’ll all be all right, curly. Niall’s a good kid. He won’t just fuck off, I promise.”

Harry’s lost him. He supposes it’s good. He doesn't know how to talk without ruining things anyway. He can hear Louis’ hesitant smile in his voice, but it’s not worth anything. “We should finish packing. Have got to do that Rustic Ties, what Megs was saying. It’s lovely. You’ll like it.” 

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “Okay. You’ll help me fold?”

Harry just smiles fondly and squeezes Louis’ hand. He’s doing his best. 

* * * 

There are seven Fijian red strings laying on the coffee table when everyone finally spills into the living room. Marc has stopped the music. Megan explains with careful wording that the Rustic Ties ceremony is a new addition to the trips this year, and it’s meant to not only wrap up the adventure that a group has had together, but to connect them and spread positive vibes to everyone in the room. They sit in a haphazard circle on the couches and the floor, and Harry wants to hold Louis’ hand. 

Ordinarily, the yarn they use is indigenous to the country, but because of the strength and exoticness of the Fijian string they imported some to use on New Zealand adventures, too. 

He looks down at the tattered string from his first time in Fiji and thinks of the three that will sit there by the end of all of his trips; he wonders which will wind up meaning the most and can’t help but think it’ll be this one. 

Megan starts, and she gives hers to Harry. “Harry. I wanted to start off this ceremony by giving this bracelet to you for one of two reasons. A) You did this in Fiji so you know what the fuck you’re doing. And B) because throughout this entire journey you’ve been not only someone I could relate to with yoga and nature and a similar state of mind, but you’ve also become a very good friend, and I am so thankful to have been able to share this week with you. You’re going to grow into a charming, handsome, and successful young man. I love you, you crazy boy.” 

Harry absolutely melts. He’s so lucky to have been blessed with such wonderful guides on his trips. He immediately gets off the couch and stumbles onto the floor where Megs is sitting in lotus, manages to fall into her embrace and mumble, “I love you, too.” She ties the string onto his wrist with a firm knot and he feels a little more whole. 

He sighs before falling back onto the couch with a thread in his hand, looking around at the boys while rubbing at his chin. “Who to pick…”

“Oh, shove it up ye arse, H. Might as well get down on one knee when givin’ yours to Louis.” Harry loves Niall. 

He shrugs. “Okay.” So he gets back off the couch and kneels down on one knee in front of Louis, grabbing his hand and staring up into his eyes, kind of an act but also not really, because this is a chance for him to say a million and one things that he loves about Louis, but in a short, firm paragraph and with something to tie the words Louis’ soul. It feels something like a proposal. 

“It’s been a week but sometimes I feel like you’ve already managed to become my best friend. You completely stole me, y’know? Asshole.” Everyone laughs. It feels strange and airy, like this speech is more than what it’s supposed to be and everyone knows it. “I don’t really know how to sum everything up because I’m bad at endings, but um, thank you for being such a great friend and laughing at my stupid jokes and being such a good roommate. You’re so amazing, Louis. So, um—” He clears his throat, wiping his face of emotion and becoming suddenly stolen as he holds Louis’ wrist. “—if you would please take this string as a token of my love and accept my hand in marriage—”

Louis scoffs in interruption and yanks his hand away. “Oh, bullshit. You all know I would be the one to propose.”

Harry covers his mouth as he cackles, standing and plopping on the couch next to him, gathering him in his arms in a messy bear hug, holding him close and breathing him in for what has to be one of the last times. “Thank you,” he whispers in Louis’ ear. Louis just shakes his head and pulls back with a fold smile, presenting his hand for a tie and gearing up for his speech. 

“Marc,” Louis starts, and they all know where this is going. He raves about Marc’s humor, and Marc raves about Niall’s heart, and Niall raves about Liam just as a general person, and Liam raves about Zayn, and Zayn finishes by tying back to Megan, and suddenly everything has come full circle and it kind of hurts for Harry to breathe. 

“I love everyone so fucking much!” Niall shouts when they’re all finally tied together, some twisted family of boys and Megan on a ski trip in New Zealand of all places, in the middle of fucking August. Harry’s chest hurts. 

As if it’s some kind of tradition, they all shout back, “I love everyone so fucking much!”

And Harry’s heart keeps beating. 

* * * 

“Come outside,” Louis says, grabbing Harry by the wrist and hauling him out the door to the porch. 

“It’s cold out here,” Harry mutters, rubbing his arms over his sweater. 

“Yeah, but it’s quiet. And we’re alone.”

“We have a room where no one can come in, though,” Harry says. 

“Shut up and enjoy the scenery.” Louis pauses, shifting Harry’s wrist in his hand and pulling their bodies closer. “Actually, kiss me instead. We can watch the trees in the dark some other time.” 

No, they can’t, Harry thinks. No, they can’t because they’re leaving tomorrow and this is goodbye. 

When Harry pulls back, he murmurs, “Is this goodbye?”

Louis’ eyes flash with something, but he then forces himself to chuckle, brings back his bravado. “Of course not, curly! We’ve got plenty of time tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “right.” He kisses Louis again because he doesn’t know what else to do, lets his hands roam Louis’ back and keeps them as close together as possible without becoming one. 

“I love you,” Harry breathes, and it’s so cold that his words appear in the space in front of them, a cloud of honesty that drifts away. Louis looks at him with wide eyes, the poor lighting of the balcony not doing him any justice but illuminating his expression just as much as Harry needs to see. 

“What?” Louis mutters. 

Harry shakes his head. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I swear I didn’t. I meant, like, a friend.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. I can feel it.”

“And you’re saying you don’t feel it back?” Harry scoffs. “I’m not forcing anything onto you, Louis. I’m not in love with you, but I’m saying that I could be.” 

“It’s been a week, Harry. You don’t fall in love in a week.” 

“I just said I’m not in love with you!” Harry rubs a tired hand over his head. “I just feel something, okay? Why is that so terrible?” He can feel his wrists’ desire to tremble, his bottom lip trying to waver despite the tooth he has sunk into it. He takes a deep breath through his nose. He should have regrets but right now he can’t even think of one. 

“We’re not going to see each other after this! I’m going to fucking school!”

“Yeah, in Manchester, not across the damn ocean,” Harry argues. 

“And you say that like you won’t go abroad. I know you. I know you want to travel.” 

“For a semester, maybe. Are you scared of me? Or whatever it is we’re both feeling, are you scared of that? What’s holding you back?” 

“You bloody know what’s holding me back,” Louis mutters. 

“I don’t think I do. I just want you, Lou. Is it not worth giving a chance?” 

“I don’t do love, Harry. It’s not in my genes.” 

“Fuck your genes! Are you saying you don’t think your little sisters are gonna find love, or that your mum won’t find another boyfriend?”

“Jesus, Harry, just drop it, would you? I’m going inside. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry shakes his head, swallows the lump in his throat, and feels whatever’s welling up inside of him constrict his ribcage. He grips the railing, hears the sliding door shut, and stares at the clouds, wanting it to be Fiji’s sky instead of New Zealand’s so he’d have enough shooting stars for him to wish on. 

That night, they sleep in separate beds for the first time in a week. 

•••••••••••••

_Day 9_

They’re all on the same flight to Fiji. Rustic Pathways has special “money saving techniques” that involves flights from New Zealand that connect through Nadi on the main island of Fiji, so there’s a tense four hours in the air, and Harry can’t stop gripping the armrest. He’s next to two strangers, and he feels sick to his stomach. The flight leaves him with a headache, and even the ginger ale that the attendants give him is useless. 

Louis is ten rows in front of him. They haven’t spoken since last night. Properly, anyway. The layover after their first flight to Auckland was tense, and Louis wouldn’t meet his eyes. Zayn kept looking at him, asking and asking, but Harry had no answer and that was his issue. He knows that Louis is counting down the flights to be home, and Harry _would_ be counting down the minutes to quiet thoughts if he knew they were coming. Somehow Fiji has simmered down for him. New Zealand has left him overcooked. They left the Crib in silent haste, everyone tired and bleary-eyed. Harry and Louis rode in separate cars. The airport was a rush. Harry can’t think about New Zealand. He can’t think about Fiji. All that’s clotting his mind are the sixty people dividing Louis and him, and how Louis jumped out of a plane three days ago. 

His stomach stays in knots for the entirety of the ride. His camera is fully charged in his bag, but he can’t bring himself to look through any of the photos. His notebook stays open on the tray table until the descending turbulence hits, and then his fingers are trying to pry into hardened plastic and all he can wonder is this: 

Can a goodbye with lips and no eyes be better than none at all? 

Call him riddled. 

* * * 

There’s someone with a sign that reads his name once he steps off the plane. Which at first is confusing, because he’s not on a connecting flight and the group leader for his next Fiji trip is supposed to be meeting him at baggage claim. He approaches the man with doubtful footsteps and his carry-on slung surely over his shoulder. It takes him a moment to register the bright blue Rustic shirt the man is dawning. 

“Harry Styles?” he asks, looking at Harry with hesitant eyes. 

“S’me,” Harry answers. “What’s up?” 

“Listen, kiddo. We’ve gotta walk and talk because you have a flight to catch.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder and points to the herd of people emerging from Harry’s plane. They move quickly. 

“What? No, I don’t. I have another program in Fiji.” 

The man shakes his head. “Not anymore. Originally, the trip itself was going to be small. There were only six people signed up, but all hell broke loose in the past three days. Two kids from L.A. decided against it at the very last minute, one just got freakin’ pneumonia, and another one was already out in Fiji doing Sun, Sand & Service, but he broke his leg and has to be sent home. That leaves you and one other, which isn’t enough for the program to carry on. I’m sorry. On the other hand, you get a full refund, we’ve called your parents and they know you’re coming home, and you’re on the next flight to Los Angeles. I have an itinerary for you here, for your flight to Newark and then on to Heathrow.” 

“Did Marc know?” Harry asks, breath heavy. He’s not staying in Fiji. He weakly accepts an itinerary of flights and a boarding pass. 

“I’m not sure. He’s got a lot on his plate already, he’s one of the flight leaders for the Nadi to LAX trip. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up to him. Your bags are going straight through to LA, so just find your way to the terminal, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes, weakly. 

The man claps him on the shoulder and then jogs a few feet away from him to some other leaders in blue, leaving Harry feeling alone in a mass of people who he doesn’t even recognize. He’s not sure how he’s meant to react right now. His movements feel automated. His bag is no longer heavy on his shoulder. Perhaps it’s a good thing. His past two groups have been too outstanding to be outlived. His luck has already been tested twice. Fiji has already graced Harry with its beauty. He’s fortunate enough to have seen it at all. 

There is not a lot of time between his flights. He loiters at the gate of his plane for maybe twenty minutes, bag hugged to his chest as he sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs. His hair is curling from the humidity that hangs inside the Fijian airport. He’s trying not to think, too nonplussed to find the boys who are assuredly together, too nervous to get Louis alone, too tired to stand up until they call for his section to board. His boarding pass is heavy in his palm, and because he’s all the way in the back of the plane, he gets on first, out of sight from most of the passengers. 

The AirBus that flies to L.A. is huge. There’s three rows of four seats on the bottom floor, and then three of three on the top floor. He’d sat on the top floor on his way in, and it hadn’t felt like a plane at all. How they manage to get up in the air still befuddles him. There’s not going to be a comforting presence next to him on the way home, not even a burst of excitement. Just dreary England and the thought of being in the air with someone who won’t even look him in the eye. 

He’s next to strangers, not even ones from other Rustic programs. As soon as they take off and his hand hurts from gripping the armrest so hard, he lets the cruising speed overwhelm him and takes a NyQuil to knock himself out. Any pictures would take the oxygen from his blood flow and he knows his hands would shake too much for him to write anything at all. Sleep is good. He sleeps. 

He wakes up with eight hours of the ten hour flight to go. He drifts in and out of a closed-eye, purple-lit state of consciousness, manages to charm one of the flight attendants in the back into giving him a coffee and a water while they’re not serving, and tries not to think about the boys who aren’t even aware he’s on the flight with them. He tries harder not to think about the three hour layover ahead of them. 

He picks at the hole in his jeans and keeps on sitting. 

* * * 

Harry makes it exactly thirty-eight minutes before he stands up. He uses the toilet, and then walks up the aisle of the bottom floor. He’s told himself this: he’ll only walk the bottom floor, both rows, and if no one’s there, no one’s there. But he can’t fight the feeling of something pulling at the soles of his feet and the chance that Louis might be awake and thinking as much as he is. 

His first steps are precarious, like when he gets up again the bottom of the plane is going to fall through and he’s going to be sucked into the clouds. He walks with quiet toes, eyes flitting over all of the sleeping figures, or ones with eyes staring blankly, or others playing games on surely dying cellphones. 

It feels like his lungs are being crushed, like his shoes are making too much noise even though he can barely hear himself walk, like if he does see Louis, he’ll stomp on his chest. 

So naturally, on his way down the second aisle, he sees him, staring blankly at the black TV in front of his seat, looking tired with purple bags under his eyes to match the lighting of the plane. Harry freezes in an instant, too close to an aisle seat and to the boy who still holds pieces of his heart in his hands. Louis’ head snaps up as soon as there’s a figure looming, and he’s harsh on instinct, abrupt.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Harry flinches, but stays composed, fiddling with his belt loops and willing his palms not to sweat. He takes a moment. “Um. Hi? They canceled the Fiji trip.”

Louis isn’t looking away from him but he feels a million miles away, like Harry’s still back in Fiji and Louis is up here, in the sky, over the Pacific going everywhere without even getting up from his seat. “Oh,” Louis says. 

Harry has cotton in his mouth and he can barely breathe. Speaking is taken for granted. “Yeah. Just, uh, stretching my legs.” 

“Yeah,” Louis mutters. “The boys are upstairs, if you wanted to know. Dunno why I got separated.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. He brushes his fringe out of his eyes with a hand that should be shaking like the plane does in the clouds. “Um. That sucks.”

Louis doesn’t even go to say anything before the flight attendant comes over the intercom. “The Captain has turned the fasten seatbelt sign back on. All standing passengers please return to your seats and prepare for landing. We should be arriving in Los Angeles within a half hour.”

Harry takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose, looking at tired Louis, with his messy hair and restless eyes and blank expression staring at a blank screen. He leaves without another word, padding down the hallway with his quiet toes and wondering if he’s going to make it back to England with these heavy feet. 

* * * 

The layover at LAX is incredibly short. Apparently airports are not good for stress levels, and it’s taken this many flights for Harry to realize it. Harry doesn’t catch up with the boys on the way out, but Harry and Louis have to rush through Immigration and Customs to make it to their next gate to board on time. Liam is staying in LA for a few days, and Niall and Zayn have a later flight; lucky them. Harry remembers discussing it as a group, Louis complaining about how he has to hurry his way home. Harry never thought they’d wind up on the same flight. 

Or next to each other, either, because at the gate they’re filled onto the plane in haste and Harry finds himself standing in row 37, looking down at Louis who’s already sitting, phone in hand and Tetris on the screen. 

“Um,” is all Harry musters. 

Louis looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes, but his mouth remains emotionless—and more importantly, silent. He stands without a word, letting Harry into the window seat and dropping his back down into his. Harry prays no one has to sit between them, and the silence carries on. 

So, they make it an hour without speaking, only a backpack separating them and Harry’s fist curled around the armrest. 

Surprisingly, Louis cracks first. 

“Did you lie to me about Fiji?”

“No,” Harry says, and he’s too quick to speak. He takes a breath, starting again, “Really, I was meant to go on a trip. But this guy found me when we landed and said that my trip was canceled.” Louis raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “He said that a kid doing Sun, Sand & Service broke his leg, another got pneumonia, two backed out at the last minute, and that left me and one other which isn’t enough to carry on. So. Here I am.” 

Louis laughs a little, like he doesn’t want to, and Harry cracks a smile. A minimal slice of tension diffuses into the air around them. Harry shifts his hand on the armrest, following Louis’ eyes as they flick from his fingers back to the seat in front of him. There are many minutes of silence between them. Harry eats a Kind bar, sips the water the attendant gave him, works on his “pretending I don’t care” face. It doesn’t go well. He keeps looking and flinching when finding there’s an expression that never wavers on Louis’ face. 

Harry can only last so long. He would always lose the quiet game when he was young, anyway. 

“So, uh,” Harry says, “how many rounds of Tetris have you played?”

“Fuck off,” Louis mutters, staring at the phone in his lap. He sighs in relent, shoulders sagging. “Like six? I’ve made it to level thirteen each time.”

“Lots of airport time has improved your skill.”

Louis rolls his eyes but manages to huff a laugh, still hesitant. The two of them are walking on cliffs with rocks that are seeking the depths of hell. Everything is cautious, and Harry’s not even sure how they made it this far. Perhaps with them, they’ll always fall into each other. “I’ll have you know I was plenty good before all these planes. You just never got to see my real talent because I can’t bloody concentrate when you’re breathing into my ear.”

Harry snorts, because, well. He can vouch. Suddenly his mind is stuttering hips and heavy breath. He can’t concentrate. “Sorry,” Harry apologizes, insincerely, unclearly. 

Louis looks at him with something close to concern. Or as close it can get with whatever friction that still lies between them and their haunches. He opens his mouth and closes it again, and maybe, Harry thinks, that they’re in the same boat—that there are things that they want to say but can’t, could never. He wonders if they’re the same kind of thoughts. 

The plane ride goes as follows: 

more tension

more impending thoughts

awkward banter

sadness

All in all, Harry supposes, it could’ve been worse. He gets off the plane with his backpack and things that are still unsaid. Luckily, they’re left with a two hour layover and another flight to get them out.

* * * 

After managing their way to their gate, Louis is already back to making fun of Harry, so clearly some things are always the same even when you’re in the grey. 

“Okay, I get that you like them, but you eat a fuckton of bananas. How are you not backed up?”

“Are you honestly asking me about my schedule?” Harry asks, incredulous as he eats his banana. 

“Not your schedule—just like. Bananas are not good when you need a shit, yeah?” 

“No, but I get plenty of fiber.”

Louis throws his hands up. “Of course. Fucking fiber.” 

“You brought it up,” Harry says, standing to throw the peel away. He takes a detour, stopping by the glass walls of the building, where he can see the Freedom Tower and too many planes going too many places other than home. Louis shocks him with a hand on his shoulder, too much and not enough. Like it always is. 

“What’s up?” Louis starts, too harsh for the dusk that’s settling on the sky. “Why do you look so upset?”

Harry bursts. He is not as resilient as Louis. He can’t control what he feels. “Because I am upset! Yesterday this felt like the end of the fucking world and now you’re acting normal, or whatever. But it still is the end of the world for me, okay? None of this is normal and I’m not as good at goodbyes as you are.”

“We still have a whole flight, H.”

Harry flinches at the nickname, stares hard at the glass and the setting sun of dirty, urban New Jersey. His voice turns to a grumble that he can’t control. “I’m not saying you have to love me. You don’t have to love me. I just want you to try. Is nothing worth a chance?” 

Louis sighs. He always seems to be doing that. “I don’t know if love is worth anything, Harry. That’s the problem.”

Harry kisses him. He kisses him because he’s good with beauty but he’s not good with words and this is all he knows how to do when he’s trapped between his heart and the beautiful things that it so desires. Louis grips his hair so hard it hurts, but it keeps him aware. They’re in Newark and it’s 100 degrees and humid, yet Harry can’t feel whatever’s clinging to his skin. It’s all this. It’s just this. 

When Harry can breathe, he asks, “Isn’t that worth anything? Whatever we both just felt then?”

“I think you’re worth everything, Harry. You’re not a cliché but here I am saying it’s not you, it’s me.” 

Harry grows meek. “Can’t it be us?” 

“I want it to be,” Louis confesses. “I’m just scared.”

And there it is. 

* * * 

Harry takes another NyQuil on the flight to Heathrow because there are bags under his eyes and bruises on his lips and he can’t look like this to greet his mother. But as if his sleeping body knows his restlessness, he wakes up four and a half hours into the flight, Louis’ head on his shoulder, chest rising and falling in a way that makes him look so harmless, like he hasn’t stomped on Harry’s heart and tried to piece it back together with stinging salt water rather than crazy glue. He has 90 minutes to spend thinking. 

 _We’re leaving_ is all that comes to mind. The two of them are leaving and Louis is going to school and he doesn’t love Harry. Harry studies him for the time he has left, replaying every day, every specific time that he can remember that Louis made him laugh, looking at the freckles he doesn’t like right by his nose, the way his hair sweeps carelessly across his forehead and his hat is askew on his head. 

By the time the captain announces their landing, Harry has to wake him, tapping his shoulder with gentle fingers and precarious approach. “Lou,” he whispers. “We’re landing.”

Louis jerks awake, fumbling across his lap for his glasses. Harry hands them to him from the seat pocket in front of him. 

“They fell off when you were asleep. I didn’t want you to crush them or something.”

Louis shoves them on his face with zero grace. “Thanks.”

They don’t do much more talking. 

* * * 

When they’ve finally made it through baggage claim, Louis is idling by the exit, not going through the last checkpoint—their great divide. This is it, Harry supposes. He slings his ski bag over his shoulder with a heave, weight heavy on his stature and in his chest. He manages to make it over to the doors, where Louis is standing with something that might resemble genuine sorrow on his face. 

Harry clears his throat and tries to not look at his beautiful blue but fails, like he always does with this boy. “You gonna go then?”

Louis coughs, looking away and doing the job for Harry. “Oh. Um. Yeah. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Harry licks his lips and plays tough. He can do tough if it’s only for a minute, right? “Bye, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself. He fixes his hair and Harry clenches his fist to hold himself back. “Yeah. Bye.” 

He picks up his bag from the ground and starts to turn, meeting Harry’s gaze fleetingly for what feels like a finale. He shows his passport to the man at the door, and then, well. Checkpoint complete. Game over. 

•••••••••••••

_Post_

Harry never knew he was this much of a dweller until now. His first night home is spent with no sleep because of what he claims to be jet lag but is probably something of heartache. He imports his photos onto his computer, easing his way through Fiji and dragging himself through New Zealand. He deletes a few blurry ones, a few multiples, but he refuses to delete any memories because while he might be a dweller, he won’t erase what can’t be forgotten. There’s no point into it. Harry is not a futile person.

He’s good for his family because not everything is bad. He can smile and laugh about all of this, because that’s exactly what he did while he was there. He can show pictures of Louis without flinching, because the only time Louis made him flinch was long after the last picture was taken. He can talk about the sunrise and the ocean and the mountains for hours, so that’s exactly what he does. 

He might be dwelling, but it’s not only about the end. Louis was never bad to him, and he refuses to wallow to the point of disfunction. Everything about summer was good. 

* * * 

Gemma takes him back-to-school shopping for tighter jeans and new shirts the day before she goes to uni. He’s been home for twelve days. They’re skimming through the racks in Urban Outfitters when she says to him, “I know there’s something you’re not telling us.”

Harry just sighs. This is not the first time that Gemma’s sister intellect has gotten the best of things that he wanted to leave unsaid. “How do you always know?”

“Because you’ve told a million stories about everyone except Louis. I know when you like a boy, H. I’m not stupid.” 

 _Like a boy._ Priceless, his sister is. 

“I’ve spoken about him,” Harry argues, albeit weakly. 

“Barely.” She thrusts out a flannel at him and he takes it willingly, pretending to admire it’s plaid rather than acknowledging the problem at hand. If it could be called a problem. “Listen. You described Fiji like it was the art and you were being forced to write a 14 page research paper on it. New Zealand had holes in it.”

“How do you know the holes have to do with Louis?”

“A, you just admitted it, and B, when you went through your selfie folder and the ones with him, you lit up and then looked like a part of your soul had died. I am an observant sister. You should be used to this.” 

Harry sighs again. He really should be. “We had a thing, yeah?” He scrubs a hand across his forehead and moves to examine the sunglasses on the rack. He’s telling an abridged story if there ever was one. “I really liked him and I think the feeling was mostly mutual but he was afraid to admit it. Plus he’s going to school this year, like you. I don’t really know if I want to get into it. Not worth dwelling on, right?”

Harry’s a fucking hypocrite and he knows it, but he really doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s leaving too, anyway.

Gemma looks at him sideways, and Harry knows she doesn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth, but he’s just trying to shop in peace. It’s her last day. Whining won’t make it anymore fun. “Try the cat eyes on, would you?” she tells him, and Harry knows it’s the last of it, at least for now. 

* * *

  

After two weeks of being home and Gemma gone, Harry gets a text on a Friday morning. 

_Louis Tomlinson :) – wanna come help me move in ? x_

Cool, so Harry chokes a little on his tea and makes sure his phone isn’t glitching or something. But when he opens the text, he finds his messages open to _Louis Tomlinson :)_ and the only text in the conversation aside from the one that was just sent is from the time they sat in the Internet café in Queenstown. _if you come to the bathroom with me i’ll give you a kiss !!_ They made out in the bathroom for, like, ten minutes. Harry feels his stomach drop to the floor. 

_Harry Styles – are you sure this isn’t meant for your mum?_

Harry is playing suave. He’s hella smooth, sure. 

_Louis Tomlinson :) – my mum’s driving me there, so i’m sure_

Harry swallows hard, breathing deep through his nose and clenching his fist so tight it hurts. 

_Harry Styles – are you messing about?_

_Louis Tomlinson – i’m stupid_

_Louis Tomlinson – and i miss you_

_Louis Tomlinson – and i want to give things a chance, like you said_

* * *

  

“This is a friend from New Zealand?” 

“Well, I met him in New Zealand. He’s from Doncaster. And he’s going to school in Manchester.” Harry taps his knife on his plate. “I can go?”

“Why do I feel like I haven’t heard as many stories about this one?” Robin asks. He and Anne are staring Harry down and he feels slightly trapped. 

“I don’t know. He was my best friend on the trip.” 

“Oh,” Anne says. “You’ll be all right on the train by yourself?”

Harry sighs. “Mum. I was literally just on like, fourteen planes or something like that, by myself. I don’t think the train should be a problem.” 

Anne takes Harry’s empty mug and puts it in the dishwasher. “Well, all right. Just for the night?” 

“Yeah. He wants me to help him move in to his dorm.”

“That should be fun, love. I think you should go. I feel like you haven’t done much since you’ve been home.”

Yeah, well. 

“Just been basking in the post-trip blues, I suppose.”

Anne just smiles at him. “Well, go on then. Pack a bag. I’ll check train times.”

Harry arrives in Manchester, and Louis is waiting at the train station for him. The only thing he isn’t prepared for is awkward small talk. He feels silly with his rucksack over his shoulder, looking at this boy who could barely look at him just two weeks ago. They hug anyway, because Harry can’t stop his lurching body and for some reason Louis always takes him in. 

The small talk, fortunately, never happens. They just talk uni – campus, dorm, classes. And when they’re finally there, Louis’ room is already set up except for a small stack of clothes on his bed a few posters that need to be hung up. 

“I thought you invited me here to help you set up? And where’s your room mate?”

“Are you playing dumb, H?”

Harry furrows his brow. “Sorry that I don’t know where your room mate is…” 

Louis bursts out laughing, taking Harry’s hand. He has the biggest urge to wrench it away but it’s fueled by nothing but longing. So he doesn’t. “No, babe, I meant about setting up.”

“Oh. But still.”

“I just wanted to talk to you. To see you.”

Harry’s heart presses against his chest like a kitten kneads into its mother. “Yeah?” 

“I missed you,” Louis says. “Sit on the bed, if you want.” He moves from the doorway to the floor by the bed, taking the clothes down and stacking them under his bed instead. Clearly still opposed to closets. “Also, my room mate isn’t moving in until tomorrow.” 

“Um. Y’know, it’s been nearly a month of almost kind of loving you.” Harry fiddles with the soft blanket that’s covering the uncomfortable mattress that school supplies, rubbing it between his fingers in some kind of nervous twitch. 

“Yeah? A whole month?”

“Does that do it for you?” Harry wonders. 

“Almost. But, not quite.” Louis shuffles across the floor on his knees, cupping his hands against Harry’s thighs and looking up into his eyes. “I’d rather it be two, or maybe even three, if you’re lucky.” Harry scowls. He blows air into his fringe, exasperated. “On one condition, though. I’ve got to be more than almost kind of loving you, too, okay?” 

Harry doesn’t get an opportunity to respond, just kisses with a smile too big and hands fumbling on skin that he hasn’t felt in too long, and well, he’s okay with it. 

* * * 

_(the ancient tale of the red string_  
 _taught me how to breathe like you_  
 _i was always worrying about the next thing  
_ _how could we be so in tune?  
_ _you were across winter's roads but your beat stayed like a god's sin_

_i've tangled hemp in knots; we tangled in spring_  
 _i could feel our ties in a predestined blue_  
_leaving there was whiplash, a wind-blown sting  
_ _you colored me breathless; it was your soul that tied me to truth  
_ _the ancient tale of the red string_

_our fingers were bound by a force, fate's need of love fit for kings_  
 _we fell, stumbled, and sprawled, but we bloomed_  
 _in meeting our thread turned to fingers grasping onto a land-locked, love-locked ring  
_ _we didn't hold ephemeral like a bruise, our love was in tattoos  
_ _(bound together) the ancient tale of the red string)_

**Author's Note:**

> WELL THIS IS EVERYONE! My twitter is [@androgynouslou](http://twitter.com/androgynouslou) and my tumblr is [swallowlou](http://swallowlou.tumblr.com) so if you want to check those out feel free! Comments and kudos make me the happiest person alive, so :****


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